Lineage IX
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU! Jedi Apprentice. Book 9. A year after parting ways, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon struggle to complete their self-appointed quests for enlightenment and justice.
1. Chapter 1

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

In a galaxy of ten thousand inhabitable systems, there were more roads than destinations, more interminable lightyears of traveling than brief moments of disembarking, and much, much more black and empty void than tiny, jewel-like oases of life. The distance between this place and the next – even in hyperspace- grew wider with each successive leg of the journey, the precious and impossible glimpse of the next tiny island of life in the great sea of emptiness successively more awe-inspiring, the ache in the pilgrim's heart a little more pronounced with every failure to find that which he was seeking.

Especially when he had been seeking for nearly a year – a year of fruitless wandering, of a seemingly futile quest for which he had sacrificed _everything_ sacred and dear to his heart. It was, he felt, supremely impossible that the Living Force should demand such a weighty collateral on a loan of wisdom it was so loathe to make; supremely impossible that a solution to this endless frustration and labor should not present itself.

He was a man of faith, whatever others might say.

And so he kept seeking, long past the point at which another – or a more sane man – might have admitted failure and sunk into the stationary morass of despair.

This time his meandering path had brought him to the less than savory shores of Nal Hutta, the reeking and reprobate homeworld of the galaxy's largest and most entrenched crime syndicate families, the sprawling Hutt clans. Besides its vermiform overlords and their innumerable minions, the planet boasted as much swampland wilderness as Dagobah, and a population of rabble and hangers-on in the tens of thousands, a prosperous hive of scum and villainy to rival any other in existence. Situated outside Republic boundaries, Nal Hutta was the first and last refuge of desperados, refugees, and fugitives.

The solitary seeker descending the junk freighter's ramp would fit right in; he too was an exile. He tugged the hood of his worn traveling cloak over his head, despite the oppressive humidity, and waved a curious insect – ten centimeters at the smallest – away from his nose. The spaceport docking pad was a tangled mass of cracks and craters where ungainly landings had carved out a blasted scar in the duracrete pad. Gonk droids lumbered drunkenly over the treacherous footing, various mechanics and station overseers cursing them as they stumbled and dragged their way to the incoming ship's fuel cell access ports.

The tall man's stride covered the broken platform at a brisk clip, carrying him onto the pedestrian plaza beyond, where a motley crowd of traders and mercenaries lounged in the porches of eateries, suppliers' shops, and other more dubious places of business. A spiced medley of alluring aromas assaulted him as he wandered down the main street; if he were honest, he would admit to a gnawing hunger. But he shoved the uncomfortable awareness of his body's needs to the margins of awareness, reaching instead into the currents of the Living Force.

It was tremendously strong here, wild and untamed, as it would be in a rain forest or a pristine desert, a place where Nature grew untrammeled, in fierce bright jealousy of its rights, a barbarian king bent on further conquest without care for ethical scruples or social niceties. Here dog ate dog – or worm ate worm – and none disputed the Rule of Might, or at least the supremacy of old age and treachery.

Again, the newcomer would not feel incompetent to live and move among such beings, at least from a certain point of view. He sensed no immediate beacon light calling for his attention, and the scent of food, not all of it repulsive to a palette rendered less fastidious by decades of travel and the undeniable relish of real hunger, claimed his primary attention. He was _famished._

In his weary state of mind, the thought sparked a wistful memory, the echo of a young voice complaining in prim and well-clipped tones. _I'm famished, Master._

"When are you not?" he muttered, to himself, a hard knot forming in his throat.

A moment later, the memory dissipated in the light of the present moment; here, before him, stood a large and shabby gambling den – the sabaac tables stood waiting. With any luck – though there was truly no such thing – he would come away with both much needed information, and enough winnings to purchase a meal and a bed.

After all, the esoteric details of his past history did not exempt him from basic human needs.

* * *

In a Republic of many thousand systems, there was more democracy than freedom, more interminable petty arguments than rational minds, and much, much more darkness festering in the nooks and crannies of an ancient civilization than any of its modern denizens would care to admit. The distance between legal and moral – even in theory- grew wider with each successive compromise reached, the precious restoration of true justice amid the fog and confusion of corruption more miraculous, the ache in the peacekeeper's heart a little more pronounced with every failure to achieve the ideal to which he was wed.

Especially when he had been singularly focused on expunging the rot at the center of his world for nearly a year – a year of hard training, of a seemingly joyless duty for which he had sacrificed _everything_ sacred and dear to his heart. It was, he felt, supremely impossible, that the Force should demand such a painful demonstration of commitment to a cause it was unwilling to promote; supremely impossible that a resolution to this endless labor and frustration not at long last be manifested.

He was a man of hope, whatever others might think.

And so he remained, in the bonds of a difficult oath, long past the point at which another – or a more jaded man – might have admitted futility and sunk into the triumphant nihilism of despair.

This time, the demands of that duty and obedience had led him straight into the stifling confines of a dank and dripping tunnel, a long wormhole wending its way into the heart of the limestone cliffs outside B'tmoth Xal, the capitol city on this remote backworld, this sickly moon of an unimpressive gas giant, circling a dying star. Astronomers calculated the planetoid's viability factor at minus two hundred standard years, meaning that the dwindling warmth of the bloated sun and the increased toxic radiation levels in the atmosphere had rendered this world legally uninhabitable two centuries ago.

The few remaining natives did not care what the Republic had to say on the matter, and refused all offers of relocation. They preferred to stay, cocooned in underground shelters, swathed in protective gear, eking out the remainder of their days under the glowering aegis of their dead solar deity, a people all but infertile and universally crippled by the devastating conditions they embraced as divine punishment for neglecting the proper rites of sustenance.

He had not come to dissuade them, though even now – despite his intellect's remonstrance that all such effort was futile and dangerous – a part of him wished to convince them of their folly, to extend again the offer of life they so steadfastly refused. When he and his master left this place, the B'tmothi would indeed be utterly marooned, for no ambassadorial party would be sent again.

This mission was itself purely _sub rosa_. They sought the last artifact of a defunct cult, one possibly buried in this ancient burial chamber and abandoned when its guardians fled the dying moon long ago. And the outcome of their quest would have no effect on the fate of the B'tmothi at all. They were the walking dead, the Forgotten.

"Your thoughts wander," came the inevitable reprimand. The tall silver haired man stalking down the ghastly tunnel a few paces ahead of him spoke without turning around, the sickly glow of his raised weapon casting lurid green shadows upon the gently dripping walls. In the glossed white mineral, strange forms appeared and took shape – the blurred outlines of _figures…_ of _faces._

"Yes, Master," he murmured, respectfully. "I will attend." There _were_ faces in the walls, the eyes and noses and gaping mouths no accident of the imagination, no mere suggestion formed by erosion. Like statuettes of melting wax, the half-obscured relief carvings stared back at him as he passed down their long aisle, the memorial portraits gaping at his audacity.

Unbidden, another voice spoke deep in memory, admonishing him in gentler tones. _Keep your focus on the present moment, where it belongs._

The peering visages in the walls bled further into a stinging moisture, and he wrenched his eyes away, focusing on the present moment.

Which abruptly became all-absorbing. A pace ahead, Jedi Master Yan Dooku came to a cautious halt, fingertips of his free hand trailing over the carven surface of a massive slab blocking their way, a heavy barrier across their path. Limestone deposits dripped forlornly into puddles at their feet, the two sabers reflected like shimmering phantoms in their milky depths.

"Ah," the Sentinel breathed. "Here we are."

* * *

In a milieu where everyone bar no one cheated, the advantage afforded by well-honed Force powers did not stand out with such clarity that it inspired suspicion; he came away with a hefty bag of winnings, it was true – but not more than some of the more scurrilous card sharks in the gambling den, and certainly less than what the villainous dealer had raked in for the benefit of the establishment.

In short, he left with a clean conscience. There were those that might argue it was immoral to steal from thieves, or to gain profit at the expense of other beings, particularly those unwittingly addicted to the false lures and promises of a casino. And these upright individuals were undoubtedly correct, from a certain point of view. One of the most vociferous proponents of this purist principle had, he recalled with a fond smile of recollection, once all but refused to set foot aboard a ship won by treachery from its owner in a game of sabaac. Had the young absolutist not been injured and half-delirious with fever – and therefore unable to resist being bodily dragged on board the getaway vessel - he might still be sulking upon the blasted heaths of Tu'axl Prime, waiting for an _honorable_ means of escape to present itself.

Youth might afford to indulge in high ideals, but he… he was growing old. The unfulfilled quest lay heavy on his heart, shadowed his every thought, haunted his every dream. Disappointment, weariness, hollow yearning: these gnawed like the twisting hunger in his belly – which might be appetite raw and simple, or the after effects of the vile alcoholic beverages served in the gambling parlour. He must sup soon, in body and in spirit, or be worn down to a drifting shell, flotsam upon the Force's infinite currents.

He paused, and ran a hand over his face. What was he thinking? How one's mind wandered when the body was tired. He needed sleep, and sustenance. Ultimate enlightenment, or his humble share in it, would come in due time if at all. Food first.

The bar and eatery was called The Wormhole – he barely gave the noticeboard a second glance.

Which might have been a mistake.

"Get lost!" the reptilian hostess barked in his face when he presented himself in the lobby to request seating. "We don't serve your type here!"

Two Whiphid bouncers waited by the front entrance to enforce the refusal; in his famished, slightly inebriated, and more than slightly irritable mood, it was tempting to throw them bodily against the far wall and to inform the hostess that he would settle for civility, if not service - but experience and sheer exhaustion won the internal dispute. He shouldered past the security force, unimpressed and unhurried, and back into the humid evening air. The streets of Nal Hutta's spaceport town were sticky and warm as midday, but now thick with a swarm of blood-sucking gnats.

The sign outside the door said _No Humans_, he noted upon a more careful perusal.

Sighing he turned once in place, surveying the avenue's other offerings. He bypassed _The Sinkhole, Grimy's Bog-N-Grog, _and _Skeeter Hut._ The only remaining option within staggering distance being _Biggins' Bed and Breakfast-Bipeds Only,_ he turned his steps toward its hospitable doors and a much-needed rest.

He had the ill effects of several probably toxic distilled liquors to burn out of his blood, and much to think about.

* * *

Yan Dooku stepped back a pace, the faint ghost of distaste flitting across his aquiline features. "It is triple magneto-barred from the interior," he said. "How crude."

His apprentice shrugged diffidently. "Simple answers for simple problems."

The senior Jedi lifted a silver brow, waving one elegant hand at the massive portal blocking their progress. "Carry on, then." He stepped back a pace.

The padawan's mouth quirked upward at one corner. He inhaled deeply, lifted a hand, and –

"_Uuungh!" _The Force blast parted the doors with a deafening crack and a thick cascade of dust and grit from the broken hinges.

Dooku brushed the offending white grime off his tunics. "Effective," he admitted. "…If unsophisticated."

They ducked beneath the sagging lintel and emerged into a wider chamber, a vast domed concavity within the mountain's heart. A foul stench assaulted their nostrils the moment they crossed the threshold. Coughing, holding sleeves against their noses and mouths, they crept forward onto the central dais, a broad platform littered with rubble and heaps of nameless, decaying organic matter.

The young Jedi cast his glance over the surrounding walls, the limestone relief carvings more sharply defined here, portraying the elongated mournful faces of B'Mothmi deities long consigned to oblivion here in the bowels of the earth. The fetid air wafted coolly from a series of black arches set at random intervals in the wall, sometimes punctuating the sculpted narrative panels in a most unlikely manner. He squinted, tracing the uneven outlines of these doorways in the sabers' dim illumination, nose wrinkling at the putrid scent filling the very Force with an ominous sense of _hunger._

"We might have used the back door," he remarked dryly, still warily peering at the nearest of these odd tunnels.

Dooku was not to be distracted from his purpose, however. Atop the dais was a richly carved block of native Bothmite granite – a grooved altar for sordid rites. The Sentinel's hands sought among the inset alcoves on its sides and back, a long hiss of disappointment escaping his lips as he straightened. "The artifact was here not long ago – I can feel its signature," he muttered."…Someone has beaten us to the prize."

A second beam of blue light sizzled and spat its way into existence beside the Padawan's first blade. "Master," he barked, his role as sentry bidding him sound the alarm. "We have company."

The Force told them of the things' approach before sight or sound corroborated the threat. Back to back, sabers blazing in the close and foul air, they stood and faced the mindless guardians of this dark underworld, the monstrosities that oozed toward them out of the endless night's rank womb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

Mama Biggins, as the proprietress styled herself, kept a generous table and made sure that her –strictly bipedal- guests availed themselves of its bounty, waiting upon the motley crew in person, her rough-spun skirts and petticoats hitched just high enough to reveal the precautionary blaster holstered beneath a stained apron.

"Now then," she chided her latest arrival. "Best thing for a hangover is _jerzzil_ gut – help yourself, then. And caff?"

Wearily, the traveler requested tea, though he harbored little hope of this unlikely wish being granted.

"What's that, eh? _Tea?_ This isn't some Coreworld dainty-house, sir." She poured a dark sludge into his chipped cup. "F's good enough for starships, it'll do fer us, we say 'round here. Drink up, then."

Personal preferences eroded by the blunting edge of necessity, the tall pilgrim raised the mug to his lips and sampled the brew. It tasted of charred earth and bitterness. "Thank you." Blue milk softened the caff's biting aftertaste.

Mama Biggins hoisted her considerable girth into the adjacent chair, straddling its seat and leaning two plump elbows upon the table, her ample bosom threatening to spill over its defensive fortifications. "My pleasure, Mr, ah..?"

He smiled, congratulating himself for paying for last night's lodgings in cash, a convenient means of exchange which did not require the awkward question of identity. Deftly changing the subject, he nodded at the blaster strapped upon her thigh. "Is that for intruders or for guests who don't pay?" he jestingly inquired.

Her mirth set the table and her own sumptuous curves to shaking; the traveler averted his eyes and applied himself to the local fare, painfully cognizant that his next meal might be long deferred.

"Oh, that's for ruffians that try to barge in here uninvited," Mama Biggins informed him. "Not that all the folks who stays here is exactly _saints_ neither. And what about you, hm? You're not looking like a saint to me. I'll lay a wager I'm not the only one at this table with a concealed weapon about my person, eh?"

Ignoring the salacious undercurrent of her question, he merely inclined his head politely. "Not a saint, but a seeker."

"Oh ho ho… a seeker is it? After yer fortune like most hereabouts, or after more… simple pleasures?"

Her interlocutor brushed stray crumbs from his short beard with the hand-cloth and regarded her thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. "There are other things one may seek… as for example, wisdom."

This declaration produced a bout of uproarious laughter. Mama poured herself a cup of the same bitter caff she had served her guest, and tipped it down her throat without ceremony. "Wisdom," she snorted. "Oh well, if you're a weed-smoking mystical sort, you'd better look up the Old One. He's just your type."

The tall, weather-worn man offered her a pale, skeptical smile. "I thought he was but a local folk legend."

A sly wink. "Most does. But he's out there in the swamps, all the same. I saw him myself when I were a girl – and they do say he's still mucking about out there. Barmy as hell's moons, too. Full of wise sayings for you, and magic and hokey old religion. You like wisdom an' phlo-sophy, you'll like his pipe dreams."

"Perhaps so."

His hostess waved an indulgent hand at his folly and hoisted herself upward again. "I've cleaning up to do – will you be needing the room again tonight?"

"No... I shall be on my way. My thanks for your hospitality."

Mama Biggins merely lit up a thin cheroot and started clearing away the dishes and crockery, watching appreciatively as the stranger rose and sauntered out her front door, his graceful, athletic figure quickly blending in among the milling crowd filling the main thoroughfare's dusty ruts.

* * *

The things were _vile._

Serrated mandibles snatching and sawing frenziedly, dozens of undulating stubs set in a reticulated fleshy underside, blank opaque eyes squirming in bulging sockets, puckered front orifices dripping a viscous slime, a scent of choking putrefaction clinging to their pulsing, thick-crusted bodies.

And the Force: redolent with mindless hunger, with visceral, thoughtless wrath.

The younger Jedi of the pair was not to be blamed if, despite all his rigorous years of training, he gagged and stumbled back a pace, coming up against the older man as they faced off against the invading horde back-to-back.

"Utterly repulsive," Yan Dooku remarked, implacably calm. "I quite agree."

And this sufficed for small-talk antecedent to the fray; in the next moment, they were fully engaged, staving off death by a hairsbreadth as the legion of monstrosities descended upon them in a writhing mass. One green and two blue saber blades flashed and burned in the suffocating dark, carving hot and sticky scars across nightmarish mountains of flesh, severing stumps and seeking mandibles, burying themselves deep in roving eyeballs or the uplifted stretch of pale flesh beneath the things' heads.

Hot gore spilled like rain; the scent of roasted meat mingled with the decayed stench of the worms' skin; the press of undulating bodies seethed and stormed like an agitated sea. The wielders of lightning flew from their place and darted here and there, leaping from the head of this monster to the angrily thrashing tail of that. The screaming dissonance of the blades reached a strident pitch as sparks flew from the low limestone ceiling and burned in exposed flesh, boots slipped and scrabbled in the reeking detritus of battle.

They landed near one of the larger wormholes.

"This way," Dooku commanded.

His apprentice bared his teeth in repugnance, casting one last fierce look at the contorted mass of flesh and smoldering wounds behind them, and then dashed down the low-roofed tunnel at his master's heels.

They wound steadily upward, following the trail carved through the mountain's heart by its oldest denizens. Side passages opened to left and right, but the Sentinel forged an unwavering trail, honed instincts and the Force guiding him as surely as a beacon light, the echoing sounds of slithering pursuit driving them forward at a hunched run.

At last they reached the terminus of this subterranean way, plunging with a shared cry of relief into the chill and thin air high above B'tmoth Xal. The city's ruins spread before them, illuminated by dying phospho lamps; above, a lethargic scattering of stars looked wearily upon their antics. Coughing, gasping in great lungfuls of air both refreshing and too sharp to satisfy their lungs, half-sliding down the ice-slicked slopes, they stumbled and scraped their way to a small outcropping and came to a halt, pausing long enough to replace weapons at their belts and to make wry appraisal of their clothing.

"Hm," was Dooku's caustic estimation of their filthy appearance.

His padawan's mouth thinned into a censorious line as he regarded his own grime-smeared tunics and trousers. "Uncivilized," he grumbled.

"And little to show for our troubles, either," the elder man observed, grimly. "Let us descend and take our leave; we have already outstayed our welcome, I imagine."

"Yes, Master."

They tramped down the frigid and barren mountainside, wrapped in dark cloaks, their breath curling wraithlike behind them as they wound their way along the stony trail to the distant capitol city and their reluctant hosts.

* * *

"How much to rent a swamp bike?"

"I'm not going to rent you a bike, Offworlder," the Trandoshan growled, turning his head a trifle to the left and expectorating a sticky glob into the gutter. "I don't know you."

The traveler shifted impatiently. He raised a hand in the gesture of compulsion. "But I am a trustworthy fellow," he asserted in a mellow, mellifluous voice.

The reptilian's gimlet eyes narrowed obstinately. "Like chisssszzk you are." He accented the obscenity with a long sibilant breath, his forked tongue flickering over scaly lips.

Stymied, the stranger leaned against the countertop. "You have a bike for sale, surely," he suggested.

This was more to the ruffian's liking. "Ssssale? Yesss, maybe. Sssomehting in the back."

The tall man followed the ambling salesman into a ramshackle lot behind the main storefront – a yard surrounded by electrowire fencing and packed to the gills with rusting and decrepit machinery, bit sand pieces piled in bins along the perimeter, a few gutted hulks occupying the center of the cluttered space.

"Ssswamp bike. Let'sssee. Here we are." Twin rows of sharpened teeth flashed in a parody of a smile; the Trandoshan waved a clawed hand at the hacked-together skeleton of a swoop mounted upon a standard hydro-repulsor platform.

The tall man examined the welding seams, mouth hardening as he appraised the shoddy workmanship. "This is all you have?"

"Ten thoussssand."

Haggling was a skill more important than etiquette here; the stranger released a contemptuous breath. "I'll give you three if you throw in an extra fuel cell. This one's half depleted.

The Trandoshan's slatted nostrils flared red. "Five thoussssand, then."

"Thirty-five hundred." It was all he had – but then again, this was all he needed. For the present moment.

Pleased with the terms of highway robbery, the reptilian vehicle-monger blinked, nictitating membranes rapidly sliding over glassy eyes. "I'll sssssee about that fuel cell." He shuffled his way to an adjacent storage shed while the ad hoc bike's new owner slammed the access panels shut and brushed cobwebs from the intakes. Though the sun had not yet crawled its way to the meridian, Nal Hutta's humid heat already sent itching rivulets of sweat down his back. He sighed, twisting his abundant graying hair into a thick braid and fastening it with a small leather thong. A mosquito the size of his left hand settled upon his shoulder, and he brushed it aside.

Eventually the scurrilous shop owner returned with the promised power cell and fitted it into the bike's drive system. Credits exchanged hands, and the vehicle wheezed to life in a spluttering cloud of dirt and filthy exhaust. The grav regulators took a few seconds to adjust the repulsor field, but it did finally wobble its way off the ground, vibrating loudly.

"My thanks."

The stranger roared down the main street and out of town, leaving a glorious tornado of brown and gritty dust in his wake.

* * *

The B'tmothi High Priest met them at the gates, an armed guard of twenty flanking him, as though to forbid entrance by force of arms.

"You are not welcome here, desecrators." The words grated past his hoarse throat, echoed in the eyes of the honor guard, visible behind the obscuring face-masks. "Word has reached me of what you have done. And you will not bring the blood of the Guardians within our walls." He gestured to the clotted stains upon their garments and boots.

Yan Dooku's haughty gaze swept over the B'tmothi warriors. "Do you bring these men to protect you from harm, or to lend weight to your idle words?"

Beside him, his younger counterpart flinched, but kept his silence, eyes downcast though both hands rested lightly upon his burnished 'saber hilts.

The Priest bristled, raising a tattooed chin. "Both, perhaps."

The silver haired man's knife like smile was colder than the icy heights they had just descended. "I assure you – the first is unnecessary. And the second-" a short, dark chuckle – "would be highly ineffective."

The B'tmothi's bloodshot eyes ranged slowly over the speaker's relaxed posture, lighting on the gleaming weapon's hilt at his side. His face twisted in resentment. "In such arrogance walk all the servants of false Light." His ritual staff rose skyward, toward the bleeding disc crawling its weary way across the elliptic. "Sol-Ra sees your blasphemies, even those you utter in your deepest hearts. And he shall weigh them in the scales on the day of judgment."

Dooku inclined his head, sardonically. "Then we shall postpone our disagreement until that august occasion." He stepped forward, one fold of his cloak tossed over a shoulder, eyes flashing with a dangerous light. Two of the most mettlesome guards barred his path with pikes, while the others drew back.

The padawan inhaled deeply, hands moving to his own weapons. A line appeared between his brows, but still he said nothing.

"You _will_ yield," the Sentinel commanded, the Force like a blunt hammer thundering into the quavering minds of his reluctant opponents.

The men fell back, as though physically injured, crumpling into those behind him.

"We shall be leaving now," the elegant Jedi master informed the High Priest, striding past with condescending grace. And then, over his shoulder, "Padawan."

The younger man followed, after a hesitant moment in which he opened his mouth as though to address the stricken B'tmothi and then decided against it, lapsing into a strict deference and pushing his way past the humiliated company before the spell of Dooku's contempt could lose its efficacy.

The ship was docked only a short distance away. They strode swiftly through the dying city, purposefully oblivious to the stares that lit upon them from open windows, to the expressions of horror that their gore-spattered clothing inspired.

"I feel your agitation," Dooku addressed his companion, without looking back.

A smoldering pause. "…Yes, Master."

They rounded a corner, sending a passel of curious children scurrying away in all directions. "This is not evolving into another, ah… _issue,_ is it?" The coldly jesting tone velveted a keen-edged warning.

His protégé exhaled slowly, watching the terrorized B'tmothi retreat before them, the veiled women withdrawing into doorways, children fleeing their presence, the Force vibrant with alarm and fear. "I would not dare argue with your wisdom, Master," the young man murmured, blue eyes glinting with a hard light fit to match the Sentinel's own steely spirit. "Particularly when all opposition is met with such an open display of superiority."

Dooku ignored the jibe. Or seemed to. They ascended a shallow stairwell leading to a broken plaza. "Ah. The old argument. Might does not make right."

His younger companion bounded up the steps beside him, cloak rippling about his heels. "So I have been taught."

The irony was not wasted on the silver haired man. "Indeed. However, this does not preclude the use of might in the service of right, does it?"

"No, Master." A grudging admission.

Dooku's serene pace never faltered as they entered the outskirts of B'Tmoth Xal's disused spaceport, and the single Republic shuttle sitting upon landing prongs across the duracrete pad. "Nor in the service of _teaching_, do you not agree?"

His padawan smiled, a wary and joyless twitch of the mouth. "I assure you such would be both unnecessary and highly ineffective."

They halted; Dooku turned full to face his companion, bringing the young man up short. The Sentinel's dark eyes burned beneath the jutting silver brows, the challenge reflected in their brilliant depths. "Someday your sharp tongue will be your undoing, my friend," he replied, the smile tugging at his own thin mouth not reaching those somber pools. "Let us hear no more of it during our return journey."

A deep bow, received with aloof satisfaction. "Yes, Master."

"Hm." The Sentinel's mien smoothed to placidity, and he led the way up the ramp.

A few minutes later, the Jedi left B'tmoth forever, ascending into skies red with mourning, and abandoning its people to the doubtful mercy of their long-forsaken deities.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Jedi Knight Feld Spruu's handsome face broke into a wide smile the moment he opened the door to his private quarters. "Why, look! The prodigal son returns home…maybe a _wee_ _little_ worse for wear, eh?"

His friend shrugged one filthy shoulder. "If you are a man of compassion, you will help me rectify that state of affairs. I need your 'fresher."

Tall, lean, and graceful, Feld waved the younger Jedi across the threshold with a mocking half-bow. "For you, Obi-Nobi? Anything. Even my own humble shower."

Grinning impishly, his bedraggled guest made a sweeping obeisance in reply. "You are a true and honorable friend, Master Spruu. I shall endeavor not to abuse the limits of your affection by leaving your facilities in any greater state of disarray than I find them." He turned toward the interior door. "…Were such a thing even possible, of course."

The Force-propelled cushion barely missed his head as he ducked beneath its trajectory.

"Wash the empty space between your ears while you're at it!" the Twi'Lek called merrily after him as he hastily slid the dura-plast panel closed.

Having attained the refuge of Feld's miniscule personal 'fresher, Obi-Wan wasted no time in divesting himself of begrimed tunics, lip curling in distaste at the stiff and reeking cloth. Both layers, his tabards, and the sash were ruined. He laid his saber and belt aside, tugged off one supple boot and then the other, and flung trousers and stockings into the quickly-growing pile of rejected garments, a shiver of revulsion wracking through his bones as the odor assaulted his nostrils.

"For Force's _sake!"_

Master Dooku had made it abundantly clear, upon their arrival back in quarters, that a master's privileges absolutely included first turn in the 'fresher; unwilling to exercise the Jedi patience he was in theory striving to exemplify, the padawan had fled here to complete the longed-for ablutions not truly feasible aboard a cramped space craft. He felt that another hour, minute – _second-_ of being crusted by gore and flaking slime would drive him to the Dark Side.

He fingered the end of his braid, pondering its last black marker. The thin plait was also caked in dry filth, but he was loathe to unbind it, and even more hesitant to ask Dooku to perform the time honored service of re-binding it afterward. He could do the necessary himself, of course… but that would be _untraditional. _ He twisted the tiny wrapped thread of Bereavement between his fingers for a long moment, weighing options, and then settled in favor of a thorough purification. The markers, and then the braid, came undone.

Water, sonics, water, sonics, and a final dousing with water: after twenty minutes he felt like a new man. Fresh clothing and a quick shave did even greater wonders for his mood. He tugged a comb through damp and knotted hair, now falling to his shoulders in thick, unruly waves, careful to leave the longer strands of the learner's braid unfettered as he gathered the rest into a thick nerftail at his nape. _For undercover_ _assignments,_ Dooku had indicated – the customary padawan's crop, easily recognizable as it was, did not suit his newer and shadier role as a Sentinel in training.

He nudged the pile of crumpled cloth on the floor – the clothing would have to be destroyed. Boots and other equipment he had managed to clean and polish on board the shuttle; these were replaced one by one, ending with his lightsaber and its matching _shoto_ blade, one slung at either hip. Thus happily transformed back into a state of civility, he hefted his empty knapsack in one hand, and released the door's locking mechanism, ushering himself and a copious cloud of steam into Feld's tiny sitting room.

"I was about to send in a search and rescue party," the Twi'Lek Knight quipped.

"You play the mother hen well," his friend remarked. "I wonder you haven't found a padawan of your own yet."

Feld's blue lekku twitched in amusement. "Nobody up to my exacting standards." He sighed theatrically, holding out both hands in a gesture of resignation.

"You mean the initiates all flee in terror when they see you approach."

"It all depends on your point of view, my little friend," the young Knight grinned.

Obi-Wan's mouth quirked at the familiar nickname; though he was not nearly as tall as Feld, he hardly qualified as _little_ anymore. The half dozen years that separated them seemed less and less significant as time wore on. "Thank you for your hospitality." He bowed, edging toward the door.

"You don't wish to dine?" Feld nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the eleventh level east wing refectory, just down the corridor.

"No," the padawan ruefully replied. "Master Dooku will be waiting."

Disappointed, Feld nodded his head in farewell. "Welcome home, then." He watched the melancholic shadow pass over the younger man's face, and then dissolve into the Force's serene currents again. "Even if part of you is still wandering, eh?"

They exchanged a quiet smile of gratitude and understanding, respectively, and parted ways.

* * *

The swamp bike – or rather, the pathetic conglomeration of spare parts masquerading as a functional vehicle – chose the most inconvenient moment possible to break down. A man less inclined to have absolute faith in the Force would have credited this to a cruel cosmic joke or the existential absurdity underlying all things; but Qui-Gon Jinn accepted his new predicament with all the dignity and tranquility befitting a former Jedi master.

Which is to say, he promptly unloaded his extensive personal arsenal of filthy epithets upon its figurative head before abandoning its rusting hulk to slow drowning in the bog, then sloughed his way through knee-deep muck in search of solid land. Here the bayou's trees had thinned to a ring of aloof spectators about a flat clearing of scum-topped ponds and treacherous clots of reeds. Water opaque with grit and algae lapped at his knees, his thighs, sometimes his waist as he doggedly pulled his boots through the sucking mud, wading steadily for the nearest of the twisting trunks.

Four meters from the dangling boughs of some native _liwa_ saplings, a palpable ripple in the Force alerted to him to a near-invisible ripple in the water ahead. His weapon was in his hand and flaring to life an instant later. A flourish, a grim moment of anticipation, and then –

-the monster's head cleared the water first, serrated jaws gaping wide to seize its prey. The scaly mass parted ways with the writhing neck, smoldering flesh jerking wildly as it spasmed in death, crashing back into the filthy swamp and coiling slowly even as it sank. The entire beast must have measured ten meters in length, snout to tail.

'Saber replaced at his belt, the tall man clambered across the corpse's twitching extent and grabbed a root, pulling himself out of the bog and onto a ragged island crowned by _liwa_ and hardy Dagobahi cypress, an invasive non-native species. He leaned his back against the hoariest of these latter, tugging off sopping boots and wringing out his heavy cloak as best he could. Overhead, stars began to peep through the dusking veil of late evening; swamp gases rose around him, faintly phosphorescent. Small amphibians croaked a dissonant love-chorus to their corpulent mates.

The Living Force descended like a warm blanket, cocooning them all in its soft tapestry of rhythms, in the humid air of Nal Hutta's night, the abrupt usurper of wearying day. 'Saber laid across his knees, the wanderer closed his eyes and let himself sink into its music, his heart singing with the humble and warty grogs, rustling and sighing with the wind between the _liwa_ trees, pulsing with the subtle susurration of the waters. Things prowled and slunk about him, keeping wary distance. Hot vapors passed like wraiths, insects minced across the bog's undulating surface, the constellations slowly wheeled their way toward dawn's red rising.

When morning came, he was still crusted in the hardened detritus of the swamp, famished and sore – and yet refreshed. He stood and took stock of his stinking surroundings, and then headed off again, following an unerring instinct toward the one he sought, and the next stop in his ceaseless quest.

* * *

"That was quite possibly the shortest Council report I have ever witnessed," Obi-Wan remarked when he and Dooku were safely ensconced in the privacy of the south tower lift. his long braid dangled over one shoulder, colored markers neatly tied back in place, chestnut strands newly and tightly interlaced: a rigorous binding of teacher, student, the Force

"Something which never officially happened cannot be rightly called short or long," the Sentinel observed, one silver brow twitching upward. "Let us term it a _speculative foray_ rather than a report."

"Yes, Master." The young Jedi favored his mentor with a wry lift of his own brows. The mission had been of a very… clandestine… nature. "Evening meal was a rather speculative foray too, would you not say?"

Yan Dooku did not surrender his rare smile often; the occasion was always slightly startling. "Ah, the one perennially unflagging passion of youth. You do not depart from the classical form, Padawan."

"I strive for perfection, Master."

The silver haired Jedi spared his student another small quirk of the mouth. "I see. And shall we have red or white with this much-desired perfection of yours?"

"Red," Obi-Wan blandly replied.

Yan Dooku was an ascetical soul, and a Jedi to boot; nonetheless, his larders seemed always to be well-provisioned. The inconvenience of an cousin or two in high places, and possessed of easily offended sensibilities, required him to accept gifts he might otherwise be compelled to decline in accord with the Code's strict stipulations against material luxury. Hence, though their supper was a modest stew of lentils and _rozza, _ mixed with vegetables and simply seasoned, it was accompanied by a bottle of rare vintage found only on the most opulent tables in the Core.

The Padawan ate enough for two, but drank sparingly.

The Sentinel, having attained what a normal man might consider the age of retirement, ate sparingly but drank deeply enough to soothe the pangs begotten by a lifetime's hard-earned wisdom - but not _so _deeply that he blunted the razor's edge of his wit.

Afterward, he wandered across the sparsely furnished common room and judiciously studied the slowly-evolving dejarik game set out upon its inlaid board-table. "You've left an opening again," he chastised his companion, making his own next move. His Mantellian Savrip proceeded to crush the skull of the padawan's neglectful pawn. "Tsk. Another loyal fool meets a fitting end."

Behind him, still kneeling at the low obsidian table, Obi-Wan drained his small cup and regarded his mentor over one shoulder. "It might have been a lure," he suggested.

"You bluff as badly as Qui-Gon ever did," Dooku shot back, idly picking up an artifact from the private collection painstakingly arrayed upon the inset shelves, feigning obliviousness to the pained wince this remark provoked in his young counterpart. "If you wish to be an effective General, you must deploy your poor holomonsters in a less cavalier fashion," he advised.

"Yes, Master," his long suffering apprentice murmured. Then, after a pensive silence, "I should contact Kar'Thon tonight."

Dooku set the rare Chandrilan statuette back in its wonted place. "Ah, our diminutive assassin friend. Yes, perhaps it would be best if you trawled the underlevels for news. Perhaps he has heard something we have not."

"I'll return before morning meditation." The young Jedi stood, summoning his heavy cloak from its resting place across the room.

Dooku waved a hand in dismissal. "Hm. I'll hear your report then. I have matters to contemplate this evening."

Having thus received tacit permission to extend his wanderings outside the Temple perimeter well past curfew- and possibly past the limits imposed by prudence -as well as the subtle hint that his master preferred _solitude_ in which to pursue some unspecified esoteric study, Obi-Wan bowed and took his leave, folding himself deep within the dark cloak's shadows as he strode rapidly away, toward the upper level hangar bay and Coruscant's swift-budding night.

* * *

The Force led him steadily onward, over squelching and odiferous terrain, guiding his steps infallibly in the right direction.

Of course, on this particular blazing and humid afternoon, it seemed also to be of a mind to torment him in the process – like a good Jedi master, its pedagogy was two parts humiliation for every one part illumination. The gnats feasted upon every centimeter of exposed skin; the bog's perpetual flatulence assaulted his nostrils; the clinging creepers of native trees tore at his water-logged clothing and threatened to rip his tangled hair from his scalp. He pushed onward, resolution hardening with every obstacle, until the swampland's concerted resistance melted abruptly into a full surrender.

In the last clearing, upon a muddy hill, there sat a dwelling – or rather, the door to a dwelling, the house itself buried beneath the rise like an ancient barrow. The round portal was typical of all Nal Huttan architecture, an unconscious tribute to the physique of its vermiform rulers; but the neatly tended mushroom and herb gardens surrounding the earthy abode were evidence of some more civilized inhabitant within. Smoke coiled from a small ventilation hole in the grass-topped roof. The Force sounded a deep gong note of affirmation: this was the place.

Qui-Gon slogged forward to the front step, and banged upon the moldy panel with one fist. The sound echoed hollowly within and then faded.

He stood, hands at his belt, and surveyed the orderly rows of fungus and small native bushes lining the path to this threshold. An avid botanist, he recognized many of the exotic species and noted with a small frown that most of them were of a hallucinogenic variety. Mama Biggins' mocking appraisal of the Old One's vaunted insights rang uncomfortably in his ears. He knocked once again, impatience lending force to the curt summons but producing no better results.

With a short sigh of vexation, he concluded that the ancient homesteader was not, in fact, home. Turning back, he retraced his steps, stooping to examine a particularly flamboyant specimen of flowering _papaver somniferum._

His curious inspection of the Living Force's glory and abundance was interrupted by a harsh cackle. "Oh ho ho, don't dally too long in _this_ garden."

Startled as a Jedi seldom is, the tall man jerked upright, narrowed eyes resting upon the speaker – a squat, flat-beaked hoary old creature with a terribly malformed hunchback and a mat of ratted hair hanging low over either rounded shoulder. The strange apparition came barely to his waist, and stumped along with the aid of a rude staff, his gait a halting and laborious waddle.

"You come to kill me, Jedi?"

Suddenly aware that his fingers rested upon his weapon's hilt, the visitor quickly folded his hands together in a gesture of peace and made the ancient being a short bow. "Forgive me; your arrival was unexpected."

A snort of disdain. "You didn't expect me to arrive back at my own home?"

The Force parted and flowed together again as the strange creature shouldered past, like a river moving around a fixed stone. Qui-Gon frowned, reaching out and failing again to grasp any _sense_ of this person's presence.

"Well? Are you coming in or not?" the Old One tossed over his shoulder.

From the back, the hunchback was revealed to be an enormous tortodon's shell, worn like armor. The door opened to reveal a dimly lit interior, a low-roofed vestibule carved into the living hill.

The tall man ducked beneath the arching doorframe and followed his host into the damp enclave, the door sliding shut behind him with a long and creaking complaint about its aging joints.


	4. Chapter 4

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Obi-Wan dropped the Temple aircar – one issued to Dooku _in perpetuam,_ as a privilege of his Sentinel status – into the only available docking space and locked the ignition circuits. An evening crowd buzzed about the pedestrian arcade in the commercial and corporate district, citizens of a dozen species and systems of origin milling together like a mixed bean stew, a universal amalgamation of differences wrought in their language and customs of dress and expression by the Republic's Core-world super-culture.

He vaulted over the sleek vehicle's side panel and peered across the wide courtyard to the neonium-decked building on its far side. Business was good tonight: customers spilled through the doors and onto the walkway in a long queue; the bustle and roar of happy diners was audible even over the din of sky-traffic and busy shoppers.

Hair unbound, learner's braid concealed within his collar, clothing a uniform shade of deepest earth-brown - the elegantly simple _dar-mai _ tunic favored by Dooku and a pair of close-fitting trousers tucked into tall boots - he would not have been easily recognized as a Jedi were it not for the twin 'saber hilts dangling at either hip. He strode across the busy plaza with deadly grace, carving a swift and meandering path through the evening crowd straight to the back doors of Dexter's Diner.

Something crashed to the floor inside just as he attained the entryway next to two overflowing garbage barrows. Waiting for the resultant spout of cursing to abate, he waved open the doors with the Force and peered round the corner into the bustling kitchens, looking for his garrulous Besalisk friend.

"Dex!" he shouted over the commotion within.

The hulking reptilian slammed an enormous frying pan down on his fusion cooktop and raised three hands in surprise. "Well! Whaddya know!" Squeezing sideways between droid cookstaff and the cramped counters, Dex sidled along the galley's length until he reached the young Jedi's position. "Obi-Wan – long time no see." He harrumphed his way out the door and pushed it to behind him, fishing a pack of long thin cheroots out of a back pocket. "Whew! Mind if I…?"

"Dex, it's good to see you." They leaned against the alley's wall, surrounded by graffiti and garbage. Dex lit up and took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of pink smoke.

"So…. " The Besalisk's glinting eyes slid over his acquaintance appraisingly. "You're looking mean an' lean these days. What's that all about, eh? Qui-Gon wouldn't approve, I think."

The young Jedi's expression hardened.

Dex slapped him on the shoulder, nearly overbalancing him. "Where's yer sense of humor, now? And I take it ya got no news, huh?"

A shake of the head. "I don't know where he is."

Dex held out the cheroot. "You need a smoke, kid. Go on."

"I don't-"

"Listen, Obi-Wan, buddy. You got a lotta pressure on ya, as far as I can see. Qui-Gon… he's a good man. I was sorry to hear he'd left the Order and all – but mostly on yer account, see? A young man needs a _guiding_ _light._ A father figure, ya might say. T's only natural. An' a damn pity when he loses it, if you see what I mean. Right tough."

Scowling, the Padawan took an experimental go at the smokestick, inhaling deeply and then releasing a similar draigon's breath of pink-tinged smoke. The inhalant suffused his blood, blunting the edge of present anxiety, a faintly menthol aftertaste in the back of his throat dulling the hard knot of loss aching there a moment earlier.

He handed it back. "No… thank you."

"Suit yerself."

"Dex, I came to find Kar'Thon. Is he on shift tonight?"

The Besalisk squirmed about uneasily. "Look now, don't get upset now … but about Kar'Thon."

"What about him, Dex?" Impatience quickly dispelled any lingering effect of the cheroot.

Four large hands were raised placatingly. Ash drifted from the smokestick's smoldering butt. "Look, Obi-Wan… I kept him on here as long as I could. But he settles every dispute with his fists. It came down to a knife fight th'other day – I had to let him go. I don't mind doin' ya no favors, but I gotta protect my people too, an' that little _chisszzk _ was a handful an' a half. Plus dishwashers is a dime a dozen, so to speak. Gave him two weeks' severance pay and booted him."

"What? Dex, I need to keep track of him, he's a trained assassin and –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm not stupid, kiddo."

The young Jedi unfolded his arms. "Forgive me. It's important."

The reptilian graced him with an alarming grin, his mouthful of yellowing teeth enough to scare a gundark off. "I _know._ So I put a friend o mine on the case… had 'im tailed. Got an address where he hangs out for ya… let's see." Dex rummaged in his voluminous back pockets for a long minute, giving the unfortunate impression of undertaking a far less sanitary operation. Obi-Wan suppressed a smile and waited for the big reveal.

"Here we go now!" The Besalisk withdrew a tattered business card, handing the battered holo-chit over with a dramatic flourish. "_Jargul World_, _Ltd._ Heh heh heh – better watch yer back down in them underlevels."

"I will, Dex, and thank you."

"Sure you don't want some food for the road, now? I still say you're lookin' a bit on the underfed side. Starved fer affection, maybe, but grub don't hurt neither."

"I'm fine."

"All right then. Take care, now."

"May the Force be with you, Dex."

He waited until his enormous friend had been swallowed up in the clanking and steam-ridden clamor of his Diner before slipping out of the alley and back to the aircar, his new destination firmly in mind.

* * *

"Sit, sit down, for the love of all that's holy. You're far too tall."

Qui-Gon Jinn's mouth thinned into a tight line, but he obeyed the Old One's injunction, if only to prevent his head banging against the low-slung earthen ceiling. He sank down cross-legged upon a frayed cushion, one resembling a meditation pad like those used at the Temple, but fancifully embroidered with sequins and mirrored baubles, and crafted of a velveteen that had once been vibrantly hued.

"Now then. A Jedi you must be – I recognize the weapon, and the signature _arrogance,_ if you will forgive my candor."

His host was not in a hospitable mood, it would seem; but he had come too far and wandered too long to be put off now by a mere deficiency in manners. "I am. Or rather, I was. I have left the Order."

"Your choice or theirs?" the Old One demanded, putting on a kettle.

Qui-Gon flinched – though he had longed for tea, this was perhaps not the place to take it. He eyed the bottles and jars of dried herbs apprehensively. Force knew what potent indigenous substances might compose the ancient's brew.

"It's cambillabum," the hoary being snorted at him, as though reading his mind. "And I sense that they laid down an ultimatum and you chose like a man. Well done."

"You sense much."

The Old One chortled merrily to himself. "Your soul is an open book to me, Qui-Gon Jinn of the Jedi. Who is the boy?"

He stirred. "Forgive me….?"

"The young imp foremost in your memories. Your apprentice?" At an affirming nod from his guest, he narrowed his small beady eyes and rambled on. "You regret leaving him behind. A Jedi master is not supposed to suffer such attachments to pollute his spirit. And the woman…. Yes, I see her too. You must guard your heart more carefully if you seek the Whills."

Genuinely alarmed now, and aware that his adamantine mental defenses were transparent to this strange being, the tall man looked up sharply. "How do you know all this?"

"You told me." The tea was handed over, bluish steam rising from the liquid violet pool.

Qui-Gon sipped gratefully. "Then I need not tell you why I am here."

"No, you need not." Grumbling and sniffing, the small hunchbacked elder wiggled his way onto another ragged cushion. "But why should I help you, hm? Wisdom ought not to be thrown like pearls before Gamorreans."

"I have nothing to offer you in return."

The Old One guffawed. "Convenient that the Jedi do not hoard treasures, is it not? You are as flinty and tight-fisted as ever. Tell me, who is Grand Master now?"

The Jedi master frowned. "Master Yoda still lives."

"Yoda?" This sent his interlocutor nearly tumbling off his seat in merriment. "Yoda teaches the wisest among you now?" A gravelly chuckle. "Well. Well. Some hope there might be for your Order… but probably not. I doubt it, and I have seen much. Too much."

Qui-Gon set his bowl aside. "If you have seen much, then you will understand my need. I do not seek power, or knowledge beyond one answer. Will you direct my steps? I have reached the end of the trodden road."

The Old One nodded solemnly. "Spoken in honesty and humility. Perhaps I will help you, maverick, since you walk so far out of bounds. But there is always balance, is there not? A favor granted is a debt repaid. If you wish to be given something, you must give in return. I will retain your services, and you will earn my help."

A Jedi had no treasures to protect, nor anything to lose. "Agreed."

The ancient denizen of the swamps drained his cup and nodded slowly. "I hold you to your word."

* * *

The place was possibly the seediest venue he had ever set foot in, certainly the worst he had ever ventured into _alone._ Mind triple shielded, senses sunk deep into the pulsating Force, instincts tensed and ready for trouble, he walked boldly into the storefront, well aware that whatever he found here was nothing but a mask for the genuine business to be found in the basement or back rooms or some other hidden passageway connected to the dismal exotic flora business.

Outside, the sleepless wanderers of Coruscant's under-levels drifted on their business, indifferent to anyone else's malfeasances but their own. The only light this far down in the city planet's bowels was the eerie artificial glow of phospho lamps and aging neonium signage. In the shadow realm, darkness and light met and bled into one another, mingled and begot impure offspring: honest thieves, corrupt officials, lords of crime and the thousands of vagrants who had been born and bred here beneath the canyons of the Jewel-City, a whole inbred race of bottom dwellers who had literally never seen the light of the stars.

It was an intoxicating mixture, more seductive in its effect upon the young Jedi's nerves than any mere _jargul_ tree's soporific pollen might be.

He could smell the sickly sweet cloying aroma from the front door. So this was a jargul den, and a thinly disguised one at that. There was no clerk tending the counter, behind which a hideous array of tentacled and spiked and poisonous flowered _things_ lurked. He paused for a moment to have a better look at the closest specimen, wondering whether Master Pertha might give his right arm to obtain a cutting from its undulating stems – or for that matter, Qui-Gon….

He turned his face away from the tiny coiling tendrils cascading over the rim of their pot and brushed through the hanging bead curtain separating the store from the warehouse section behind. The curtain parted, jangling and chiming faintly as he ducked beneath the low lintel into a vast, dimly lit space heavy with the scent of perfumed flowers. Gravel-lined paths wandered here and there among the neatly groomed "grottos" where lumps of inert cloth and tangled limbs lay in stuporous bliss beneath the blossom-laden branches. Pollen granules floated, mesmerizing, upon the humid air.

An attendant – all long grasping arms and invertebrate, flexible body – scooted toward him, seeming to float over the hazy ground. "May I show you to an available space? Or are you joining someone?"

Obi-Wan narrowed his focus, blotting out the dizzying spell of the _jargul._ "I am joining Kar'Thon," he enunciated clearly, watching his interlocutor's pale, opaque eyes for signs of suggestibility.

The mind trick seemed to be effective. With a sinuous gesture of one elongated limb, the red-skinned cephalopod led him down the right hand pathway an around an artifical terrace. A row of paper lanterns floated above, lending a soft glow to the handful of separate grottos in this corner. "Here."

And there was his diminutive assassin friend, sprawled on his back, insensate.

The young Jedi knelt and shook him, to no avail. The scent of jargul here was choking; he felt his own head swim a little , despite his careful anchoring in the Force. "Blast it." Sucking in a shallow breath between gritted teeth, he cast a cautionary glance about him. Nobody in the place stirred, and the Force … well, it was not churning with danger, precisely - though it might accurately be described as churning in general.

Or maybe that was his stomach.

"For the love of…" He hefted Kar'Thon's surprisingly dense form over his own shoulders, standing with some difficulty. Likely enough the little fool had blown his entire two weeks' severance pay on this addiction; and that meant it was incumbent upon him to find his _contact_ some other means of gainful employ.

He staggered toward the exit, only to find his path blocked by the same multi-limbed attendant and a burly brute squad of varying species but uniformly dim intellect.

"Leaving so soon?… Your friend owes us some money still."

Obi-Wan called upon the Force, which was still churning in a very uncouth manner. "He has paid his bill, and we are leaving."

But this time it did him no good. The troglodytes in the background cracked their knuckles in threat. Kar'Thon stirred and groaned, then lapsed back into a stupefied silence. The odor of sticky, honeyed pollen was growing overwhelming… stifling, in point of fact. Dizzying, even.

He dropped the insensate ex-assassin to the ground. "You don't want to make a scene," he warned the bouncers. "It won't be pretty."

Though , he reflected with a distant part of his mind, combat could be considered beautiful. In fact, most things could. At the moment, the blurring lights strung overhead and the music of a fountain- somewhere else, elusive – were enchanting, as thrilling as the coursing river of blood in his veins and the martial rhythm of his heartbeat. He had never before now noticed that the twin crystals embedded in his 'sabers could _sing. _ They broke into a glorious chorus of delight as they leapt from their hilts, an ecstatic duet.

"Jedi!" somebody shouted.

"Keep your distance," somebody else hollered. "He'll take your kriffing _arm_ off!"

There were blaster bolts, and they were beautiful too, things of lethal beauty. His sabers swirled, danced, collided with the blazing tails of flame. There was a great deal of shouting and cursing. Shadows moved away from him, the Force tainted with fear now, a shimmering dewfall of awe in its sonorous depths.

He gathered his wits sufficiently to sheathe his blades and hoist Kar'Thon up on his back again. Half swaggering, half stumbling, he found his way to the exit… and this time none barred his path.

They staggered out into the cold night, into the frigid indifference of the underlevels' perpetual gloom, and headed back to the aircar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"How young are you, Qui-Gon Jinn?"

Young? He had not been young for many, many years. He had been young once, and then grown old beneath a burdensome yoke; and then young again, attaining his independence and his sure footing in the Light, teaching and learning at once; and then old again, crippled by betrayal; and then young again, redeemed by an unlikely second chance; and then ancient, his heart burdened beyond endurance by loss. And then he had wandered until he had forgotten all but his name and origin, and final destination, the tempestuous rise and fall of his road blurred into a hazy memory. What was he now?

"I have seen over fifty standard years."

The Old One snuffed and grumbled to himself as they labored along a winding footpath beneath the vine-draped trees. "A good age to begin to be wise. For a human. You _are_ human, I presume?"

The tall man smiled ruefully. "What was the giveaway?"

His new acquaintance stumped along, leaning heavily on his crooked staff, the bulbous tortodon shell clumping against his knees and tail as they wended along the beaten trail through reeds and marsh grass. "You burn fast – in the Force. Flighty. A candle in a wind – guttering, but never extinguished entirely. Every species has its way. And that is yours. And you are _very_ human."

"Thank you," the Jedi master replied, tightly, opting to interpret this observation as something verging on a compliment. Much depended on one's point of view. Half nettled, and half curious, he extended his awareness again, seeking a sense of the ancient being's own unique Force signature – and once more found nothing, his questing mental tendrils rebuffed, the Force glinting off the old trollish figure like brilliant sunlight off water, confounding and obscuring at once.

He slowed his pace, a thought occurring to him which ought perhaps to have crossed his mind before now, and which- he felt sure – would _certainly_ have occurred to the one he most keenly missed at this moment.

_I have a bad feeling about this, Master,_ a remembered voice complained: crisp, dry as dust, velvet undergirded by supple strength, as though challenging the Force itself to prove him wrong, while yet holding out a childishly simple hope that he was indeed mistaken.

Qui-Gon sighed deeply, lengthening his stride to draw abreast of his guide.

"I am not a servant of the Dark, if that is what so disturbs you," the Old One's gravelly voice assured him.

They reached a damp clearing beneath the drooping trees, a place where the bayou opened out into a placid field flooded knee-deep. Delicate blossoms floated upon the water, drifting and spinning in a mild breeze. Sunlight glinted here, there, sparkling fire captured and set to burn in a thousand rippling currents. The open petals lay soft upon spreading green pads, the very symbol of tranquility.

"Lotus are not native to Nal Hutta," Qui-Gon objected.

"They are native to the Force, and that dwells everywhere. So – Jedi – perhaps they are like you. Homeless and yet at home in all places."

"Perhaps." They looked out upon the idyllic pool for a long span of breaths.

"Now," the ancient being announced, "You have indentured yourself to my service; and the task lies before you. Amid my lotus there grows a vile weed – you see it there?" He thrust his stick out over the gorgeous panoply of light and open blossoms. "That is chokewort, native to this planet."

"And you wish me to uproot it."

The Old One rocked back on his wide, splayed feet. "If you are able."

* * *

"Go kriff your _fleema_ mother, Jedi _karrbuku."_ So saying, Kar'Thon slumped over the small plastoid table, heavy eyelids drooping shut.

"No you don't," Obi-Wan sternly reprimanded his companion. "Sit up straight- and drink _all_ this caff."

Kar'Thon's small, rumpled face was unattractive by human standards- and rendered uglier still by the surly scowl contracting his mashed features as he groaned and slumped and whined his way through the aftermath of _jargul_ intoxication. "Leave me alone!" the miserable assassin snarled, gripping his head in both hands.

"I don't think so." The young Jedi pushed the large mug into his captive's hands and tipped it upward, sending the lukewarm brew dribbling down Kar'Thon's throat and chin.

Choking, the dimunitive Darsshiki batted away his hands and gripped the edge of the table, eyes slitting to furious slits. "Jedi _bastard!_ You torment me!"

The padawan ran a hand through his long hair, releasing his own frustrated breath in a long hiss. "You've done that to yourself." He gulped down his own second cup of caff, noting that his hand shook slightly as he set the hot ceramplast mug down. Even now the lingering miasma of _jargul_ pollen muddied his senses; how long would it take to wear off?

The Darsshiki assassin made a very rude gesture with his left hand, one the young Jedi chose to ignore.

"If you are _quite_ done complaining, I want some news."

Kar'Thon bared his sharp teeth, twin rows of razors set in jaundiced gums. "I got headache. Kriff off."

Obi-Wan's eyes slid sideways in vexation. He leaned forward, tugging the crude tribal talisman from its hiding place in his breast pocket and dangling the carven emblem before the assassin's bleary eyes. "Do you remember what this means?"

A long and maleficent hiss met this challenge. "Hell-spawn chew your bowels! Yes!"

The young Jedi crossed his arms. "Good. Now what have you heard?"

A grumbling hesitance, in which the Darsshiki eyed the symbol of his dishonor – the pledge of a life-debt – with mutinous, glazed eyes. Then he spoke, spitting out the syllables as though they burned his purple tongue. "They are recruiting. For new job. Somewhere in the Rims. I said no, but Ogg will be back. …_fark_ his ugly face."

Raising a brow at this ironic condemnation of Ogg's scarred visage, Obi-Wan closed his fist about the talisman again. "You take that job when he returns – and let me know where it is – and I'll give you _this_ back."

That offer finally had Kar-Thon's attention. The tiny warrior sprang to his feet, standing upon the creaking plastoid bench and making a snatch for the sacred object.

But the padawan was too fast for him. "Ah! _When _ you set me up." He fished a magnetic-clamp tracking beacon out of his belt pouch. "Take this and put it on Ogg's ship."

The assassin grabbed the small device, favoring his interlocutor with a sour and sarcastic glare. "Fine. Jedi _chissssszzzzk."_

Mouth pressed into an ironic line, Obi-Wan stood. "It's been a pleasure, as always. Allow me to give you a ride home."

Kar'Thon waddled out of the small café ahead of him, simmering resentment wafting through the Force like the toxic effluvia off some star-forsaken bog. The young Jedi reflected that he would be _glad_ to be rid of his contact's bothersome company when this affair was concluded; the tedious responsibility of maintaining Kar'Thon's well-being and loosely supervising his disreputable lifestyle was one he would gladly leave behind.

They clambered into Dooku's aircar in silent mutual annoyance, and lifted off into the frenetic sky-lanes, whizzing along between the glittering canyons of tenement houses and shabby corporate offices toward the dreary residential tower where the Darsshiki eked out his miserable existence.

"And if you _must_ be sick, at least have the common decency to do it over the side – "

But of course his admonition came too late, or was purposefully ignored.

"For stars' _sake."_ Obi-Wan ground his teeth and gripped the yoke tightly in aggravation. Apparently, he was destined to have just _that_ sort of uncivilized night.

* * *

Nal Hutta's bloated sun crawled its way to the meridian and held endless court in the noonday sky, beating down mercilessly upon the laborer's bare back, a scourge of fire and heat. The flies and gnats swarmed greedily over the swamp-lake, buzzing in a deafening chorus; skeeters croaked, birds screamed, snakes slithered and skimmed beneath the rippling waters. The atmosphere itself twisted in the scalding temperatures, wringing moisture from its folds, a humidity so great that the traveler's lungs ached for want of proper air.

He yanked mightily upon the chokewort's exposed stems, the thick ropes of needle coated vine hidden beneath the leafy crown; these he discovered entwined among others, a tangled labyrinth of secret chains connecting every chokewort bush in the lake like the hundred heads of some abominable monster.

The Force and brute strength enabled him to haul much of the slimy and bristling mass to the surface, where he could hack at it with 'saber and crude machete; but he knew this was ineffective in the long run. There was no way to _truly_ destroy such invasive organisms but to uproot them. And to do that, he must….

Long braid rank with slime but dripping a welcome moisture down his back, Qui-Gon drew in a deep breath, stretching his aching shoulders and arms. A year without proper sparring practice – however many kata he performed, however much hard walking and climbing and sleeping on the hard earth he had endured – had taken its toll in terms of stamina. And he _was_ getting older. Slowly, but still.

On the shores, he could make out the Old One's rumpled form serenely watching him atop a flat boulder. Not since his days as an initiate under Yoda's tutelage had he felt such an unwonted upsurge of resentment – the natural frustration of a youngling set to a seemingly impossible task. Any child raised within the Temple knew this feeling well; and every Padawan was even more intimately acquainted with its subtle barbs; but it had been any number of years since he had chafed so beneath the unwelcome imposition of a teacher's authority.

Not that he didn't have his moments of disagreement with the Council's dictates…. On rare occasion.

_Not again, master,_ echoed that constant sprightly voice in his memory.

Well, perhaps more often than occasionally. But then, he always had the Living Force itself on his side, the invisible aegis of the universal Light under which he planted his banner of defiance. Now, as when he had been himself a mere learner, that subtle energy, that source of guidance and insight, seemed to wink at him over the shoulder of the Old One, as though enjoying his humiliation.

And that meant that he too must accept this absurd inversion of roles with good humor.

Mouth tightening in an ironic smile at his own expense, he fished his rebreather out of his belt pouch and clamped it between his teeth. With a small nod and salute at the vigilant and eccentric master of the swampland, he ducked beneath the scum-topped surface, the cold waters closing over his head, wrapping him in a murky realm of pale green light and swirling dust.

The pool was not deep; he plunged downward, squirming and shoving his way through the twisted swaths of green, the umbilicum uniting the world above to the muddy deeps below. The chokewort's knotted entrails descended to a clot of sticky and dark earth in the pool's center. He tugged experimentally at the nearest branch of the great mass, only to realize with dismay that the spiny ropes were twined, almost lovingly, about the thinner more supple roots and stems of the lotus floating above.

A trail of bubbles rose from the rebreather's filters as he breathed out his vexation.

Groping with both hands, heedless of the scratches and cuts inflicted on his arms by protective spines, feeling for the central knot, the very heart of the plants, reaching with sore fingers and the Living Force itself to divide the good from the ill, the beautiful from the ugly, his vision blurred and obscured by the dirty water, by the stream of air escaping his oxygen cycler's vents.

And then he realized; weed and blossom were not two but one, their root balls wedded in a monstrous conglomeration beneath the squelching swamp-floor, whether symbion circle or parasite and prey he could not say, but an organic unity that could not be divided without destroying both parts.

For an eternal moment he considered uprooting all at once – wiping clean the tormented slate of existence until the pool shone clear and unsullied by either pain or joy…

But in the end, his hand slipped away from his 'saber's hilt and he kicked upward, breaking the green veil between above and below, algae clinging to his beard and hair in disintegrating clumps as he waded his way to shore, slogging through the heavy and sucking shallows to the foot of the Old One's weather-smoothed stone.

"You have not completed your task, Qui-Gon Jinn."

Dripping, filthy, beribboned with trailing strands of green, the former Jedi master dipped his head. "No."

The ancient being heaved his stiff jointed body upward with a throaty sigh. "Come, then," he snorted, "We will have more talk."

* * *

"Yes – and please have the interior detailed," Obi-Wan casually added, tossing the ignition coder to the transport requisitions droid.

"Ahem." The thing's coldly enunciated cough arrested him in mid-stride. "That will require Master Dooku's direct authorization, _Padawan_ Kenobi."

For the love of… "I'm fairly certain Master Dooku will not be pleased to discover the console and seats in their current condition when he next uses the vehicle," the young Jedi tartly pointed out. "Consider it routine maintenance."

The droid stared at him, unmoved by his persuasive reasoning. "The maintenance kit is located to the left of the interior exit," it blandly informed him, hovering off to answer the chiming of its comm-station, the soft signaling of another ship requesting clearance to dock in this bay.

Running both hands though his hair, the padawan stalked to the designated doorway, snatched the kit off its wall mount with a frivolous and irritable use of the Force, and promptly set about removing the offending …._emesis…._ from his master's personal transport while the insufferable lord of the hangar bay made a fuss over the Republic shuttle landing on the extended pad outside the bay doors.

Really, biohazardous waste removal was for _droids. _ He scrubbed a bit harder, insuring that the gleaming side panels retained a sheened elegance fit to satisfy the Sentinel's exacting standards, and levitated the soiled cloths into a nearby waste receptacle.

"Will you see to the cargo hold, Padawan? I will submit our preliminary report and make arrangements for temporary quarters."

His head came around at the familiar melodious cadence of Master Adi Gallia's voice; a moment later, the Tholothian Jedi descended the shuttle's ramp and strode across the adjacent walkway to the east Temple entrance, long cloak skimming the decks at her heels.

He exhaled slowly, heart throbbing against his ribs.

There was nobody else here. Only the confounded _droid._

And… yes. There. Here. In the ship.

He vaulted lightly over the handrail separating his bay from the retractable landing pad and dashed along its extended length to the foot of the ramp, breath coming short, belly twisting with ecstatic dread as a spike of joyful recognition lanced through the Force.

He was up the ramp and into the hold between heartbeats, the Force melting into a meteor-shower of welcome, of sparkling, shuddering delight, a thundering river pounding in the luminous currents, singing in his blood.

"…Siri."


	6. Chapter 6

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

They met in a tender collision of mutual longing, rank and oaths forgotten as they sought to reunite that which had been too-long sundered, speech abandoned in favor of a more intimate conjunction, hands wandering reverently over familiar novelties – until their fingers brushed against each other's saber hilts, hard-edged reminders of duty and destiny.

They stepped apart.

"Let go of me, you scruffy nerf-herder," Siri snapped, though a breathless arm's-width now stood between them.

He watched, entranced, as high color tinged her cheeks, white gold tendrils escaping her thick braid to curl coyly at her temples. "_Scruffy_?"

"Look at you!" Siri Tachi snorted, very earnestly and intently taking her own advice, her eyes glittering with an indecipherable light. She gestured sharply, encompassing him head to foot. "You're…. You look like a cheap mercenary!" Her eyes raked over his face and then down again, lingering on every detail as though confirming her own indisputable opinion. She stood there, lips parted, gripping her saber hilt as though for stability.

"That's the general idea," he replied, seizing the opportunity to make his own minute and devoted appraisal. The shadowed valley beneath the neat intersection of her loose tunics; the soft hollow of her throat just above it, framed in a curve of dark fabric; that tiny delicate _place_ just below her ear where her jawline dipped… "To deceive the shallow and unobservant."

The mettlesome light in Siri's ice blue eyes rendered them more dazzling. "Only a charlatan relies upon cheap tricks," she retorted, archly.

A grin. "And only a silly twit finds them intriguing."

"I'm not _intrigued, _Kenobi! I'm ... assessing the situation." She stepped forward again, hands splayed upon hips, face tilted up in challenge, her breath playing over his skin.

"Intimidated?" he asked, blandly.

"Why?" Siri's perfect lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Because you're carrying so many sabers now?"

Alarmed, and abruptly self-aware, he took a mortified step backward - straight into the bulkhead. She wasted no time in closing the gap between them, pressing against him, both arms wrapped about his chest in a fierce embrace, head resting just beneath his chin.

"You're not helping matters here," he muttered, reaching into the Force for some semblance of calm, of _equilibrium…_ but there were so many, many things out of place, inverted and displaced, that regaining balance was out of the question.

"…Ben'ke."

"How long are you here?" His heart pounded in aching hope. There was so much to tell, to ask. So much to _heal._ Let it be at least -

"A day. Or two, at most."

A _day?_ He swallowed down the disappointment in a hard lump and buried his face in her hair: sweaty, dusty, redolent of mandangea blossoms and invisible fire. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," she addressed his collarbone. "But I was afraid you wouldn't even be here."

The Force had granted them that much at least. A single day's reprieve, a miserly pittance of joy in a vast and uncertain sea, the slow-churning maelstrom of fate. He accepted it, in humble thanksgiving. "When are you free?"

But of course she would not know. "I … I'll find you. I have chores here, the Council report… Master Adi may have plans for us…"

He nodded somberly. "I'll wait for you." With a reckless discretion, a wild patience.

And then they parted – but that was easier, for they were well-versed in it.

* * *

"Now," the Old One mumbled, heaving a ponderous mortar and pestle onto the crude slab of split wood that served him as workbench and table alike, "Tell me why you failed in your task."

Qui-Gon, having humbly and gratefully exchanged his filthy garments for a rough-woven blanket offered without ceremony by his host, sat and watched the strange being's workings with a sinking feeling deep in his gut. He knew enough of pan-galactic shamanic customs to recognize the slow and steady grinding of a spirit-hash, a potent blend of dried herbs and other botanical substances that would eventually find its way into a shallow ceremonial pipe.

"The chokewort is vitally entwined with the lotus… I would not destroy a thing of such beauty, even to rid you of a noxious weed."

Beneath the rigid armature of the tortodon's shell. The Old One's shoulders rose in a shrug. "You haven't saved the lotus, you know – the weed will choke it out eventually. You have but prolonged its death pangs."

The Jedi master felt old, shivering in the afternoon heat. "But while it lives, it is beautiful. Who am I to end its life prematurely?"

A blunt digit was thrust under his nose. "Who are you indeed to say when this or that lotus blossom shall expire? You did not plant them upon the waters; you can dictate neither the time of their blooming or their wilting."

Impatient, Qui-Gon recited the rest of the lesson. "I can only enjoy them in the present moment; and furthermore, much that is evil and causes suffering in this universe must be left in place, lest the effort to destroy it annihilate that which is good. Only a Sith deals in absolutes, and this is why a Jedi is a peacekeeper and not an agent of war. If we were to dedicate ourselves to the extinction of all evil, we would only hasten the collapse of all we hold dear: the Republic, civilization, the balance of the Force." Did the eccentric teacher of the swamps think him a green padawan? He had been the one to impart this wisdom to a perplexed young soul, more than once, in his own magisterial role.

"You teach well," the Old One chuffed, reading his mind with disturbing ease. "But have you learned it yourself, hm? There is a great difference."

Chafing under the gentle inquisition, Qui-Gon ground out his next reply. "What do you mean?"

The ancient resumed his unhurried task, grinding and mashing steadily. "Death is likewise entangled in life, loss in joy. You seek the path to immortality…. But those who would eliminate death often _uproot_ life along with it. I think you have already done so. This quest of yours – have you considered what has already been destroyed by it?"

A chill racked the tall man's bones, and he drew the coarse fabric closer about his body. "I have done no harm, to any sentient."

The Old One wagged his hoary head back and forth, a hypnotic swaying motion. "You have severed more than one tie, Qui-Gon Jinn, and left others to nurture that which is yours to tend. The damage is done: your lotus already flounder, rootless, upon the open waters. Take a care that they do not drift too far."

His visitor exhaled slowly, the weight of uncertain dread claiming his heart, pulling him into a regretful bog. "Obi-Wan," he murmured, resting his forehead against his bent knees as a wave of unfamiliar nausea claimed his senses.

The Old One chuckled darkly. "Was the sacrifice worth the gain?"

In this place where the Force eddied and pooled, slipping about the master of the swamp, lying stagnant in deep and somnolent pools, the Jedi felt his sure footing give way, the foundation of his certainties yield into a dubious morass. "There has of yet been no gain," he gruffly answered. "I cannot say."

The ancient being disappeared into a deeper recess of his domicile, only to retrun with a long-stemmed ceremonial pipe in one hand. "Then you must ask the Force."

Qui-Gon stirred, misgiving stirring nebulously at the margins of his awareness. "We do not –"

"You are no longer a Jedi, I thought?"

A simple question that fell upon his ears like a harsh profanity. The answer stuck in his throat.

"You seek my help because you have reached the limits of your own insight. Why do you balk at the offer of assistance now? Do you fear what wisdom I have to dispense?"

The weary sojourner closed his eyes. "Visions… are not my strong point. I have always trusted in the Living Force rather than such treacherous guideposts."

The Old One packed the shallow bowl with his painstakingly crafted blend. "But these are visions incubated by the Living Force, as you Jedi call it. See now what root and leaf and flower have to say to you; they are benign progeny of the one Life that binds us all. You are Jedi – what is illusion to some may prove vital revelation to you."

The tall man bowed his head; surely his foray into this weird realm could not be fruitless – for where else would he turn? His resources exhausted, the trail followed until it had run cold, his only choice was to turn back in defeat, empty-handed, his losses compounded by a heart too rebellious to surrender its hope – or to persevere, forging ahead through whatever uncharted realms lay ahead.

"Very well," he agreed.

* * *

The corridors of the West wing residence halls were – as always – fastidiously free of ornament and utterly devoid of noise or distraction. Conscientious about the peculiar needs of his neighbors, Obi-Wan all but tip-toed down the corridor, treading softly along the carpeted hall to the furthest door on the right.

He hesitated even there upon the threshold, questing in the Force for some positive sign that Master Dooku was quite finished with his _solitary_ scholarly pursuits – and feeling a quiver of motion and perhaps even vexation from beyond the plasteel door panel, he decided that his return was not premature.

He greeted the Sentinel with a deep bow upon entering. "Master."

Dooku waved a gracious hand. "Eat. We will speak in a moment." He disappeared into his private room, presumably to complete his toilette. A faint miasma of exhaustion hung in the air like a shadowed mantle, a trace of battle joined and completed – but the padawan did not venture to inquire. Dooku's occasional noctural foray into matters _restricted, _ if not outright forbidden, was – he had been told with severe authority – none of his business.

There was caff, besides the usual nutritious gruel, and he partook of both in great abundance, hoping that the aftereffects of his own unfortunate adventures in the jargul den were well and truly expunged from his system. Steaming cup in hand, he wandered to the dejarik table and smiled down upon its motley array of holo-gladiators. His crushed pawn had long since been removed from the playing field, leaving an alluring opening in his defenses. He raised his brows, casting a cautious glance over one shoulder, and then nudged his rancor a few paces toward the board's center in the sort of unimaginative textbook countermeasure one would expect from an overconfident novice. Pleased with the new arrangement, he settled back to his breakfast and presented a demure façade to Dooku upon the elder man's reappearance.

The Jedi master stood above him appraisingly for a few moments before folding himself down opposite. "Spice or _frixx?_"

Obi-Wan's mouth twisted wryly. So much for _purging_ unwanted effects from his Force signature. "Jargul," he succinctly answered, taking a long draught of his caff. "I had to _exhume_ Kar'Thon from a shabby den in the Tarkall Looplast night."

One silver brow twitched upward. "I presume there was no _collateral damage_ this time?"

"No, Master."

"That is fortunate." Dooku's grey eyes narrowed, a piercing mental shiv just ever so _precisely_ thrusting beneath rigid mental shields.

His apprentice tensed, then yielded, too wise to resist the unwarranted invasion, hands tightening slightly about the warm ceramplast cup until the Sentinel withdrew his invasive presence again.

"I have arranged a sparring match this morning," the Jedi master announced. "Against very select opponents. I would prefer that your focus remain _undiluted_ by inconsequential distractions."

Feigning obliviousness would never do; Obi-Wan met his gaze unflinchingly. "I look forward to it."

"Good." Dooku's mouth curved upward at the corners. "We shall practice the _tai fortex _ tandem dueling method - and I should prefer not to be bombarded with images of Padawan Tachi's …allurements_."_

Heat rose in the younger man's face, a candid testimony to a disquietude nowhere apparent in his posture or expression.

The Sentinel splayed the fingers of one elegant hand upon the ebony tabletop, contemplatively drumming them against the smooth surface. "You know, " he mused at length, "I could always rely upon Qui-Gon to satisfy the demands of his own curiosity. Forgive me if I touch upon a tender subject, but even the most experienced among us finds himself sometimes at a loss… and I have not been _young_ in many years."

Startled by the seeming thaw in Dooku's demeanor, the proffered hint of empathy, Obi-Wan looked up, an unlikely hope blossoming beneath his ribs. "I… would welcome your counsel," he murmured. Anyone's counsel, really – but his _master_ was the first to whom he should turn.

Humor ghosted across the Jedi master's aquiline face, an edged irony. "Indeed? I assure you, my professional qualifications lie elsewhere entirely."

The blush upon his padawan's cheeks rose to his hairline, the Force itself bleeding with mortification. The young Jedi looked away, anger sparking in the wake of shame.

"However," Dooku continued, mercilessly driving home the Makashi strike, "I possess a well connected cousin who runs an elite courtesan service. She might be persuaded to find you a suitable _tutor,_ if you are incapable of quelling your carnal urges."

"That will not be necessary," Obi-Wan ground out, quietly furious.

A raised hand silenced him. "Then I assume you will take measures? Stamp out the fire or douse it elsewhere - but _do not _pollute the halls of this Temple with that which pertains to the most banal gutters of existence. We are luminous beings… not this gross matter."

This command was met with cold defensive fire. "This is not a matter of ... _base desire." _Or at least, it was much more than merely that, a thing of perilous splendor, both deeper and more exalted than what Dooku implied.

"That is far worse. Have a care: the body is a fickle servant, but your heart - this belongs to the Light. And in that devotion there is no room for... adultery."

"I am not he who spends his nights sequestered with Dark artifacts," the young man replied, with a deadly placidity.

They surged to their feet as one, two hard-forged wills clashing like draigons upon Ilum's icy heights.

"_Padawan."_

Obi-Wan seethed, standing firm even beneath the acute mental lashing against his compromised shields, Dooku's Force-borne _assertion_ of authority like an unbearable pressure, a blunt assault upon that invisible wound where once his bond with Qui-Gon Jinn had taken root, a bleeding and bruised place deep within his psyche yet unhealed. If moisture stung his eyes, he did not notice.

The penalty for disobedience, for _rejection_ of his rightful mentor, was a sacrifice not worth the victory.

He would be a Jedi. If it killed him.

"I have dishonored myself with my words, Master," he choked out, falling to one knee. "Forgive me."

Dooku's penetrating stare told him that judgment was reserved until he had proved himself worthy of such an unmerited reprieve. He remained kneeling until his breath steadied into a more acceptable rhythm, and the Sentinel grew impatient with the delay.

"Come," he ordered. "We are due in the salles."


	7. Chapter 7

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Qui-Gon Jinn hesitated, the smoldering pipe held lightly between his fingers; he, who believed in the direct approach, in following the Force at the unquestioning distance of a single heartbeat behind its promptings, actually gave pause to consider what he was doing.

"No harm will come to you here," the Old one assured him. "Except that which you carry within you already."

"This is not the Jedi way."

His ancient host pursed a beak-like mouth and grunted. "You are here because that Way led you to a dead end. And yet you will not set foot off the Path? You are eager to forge your own Way when it suits you, but unwilling to stray when another leads?"

The tall man still hesitated. "Visions can be treacherous."

"So can the heart, Qui-Gon Jinn. Which is it that you fear to behold: past, present, or future?"

"Perhaps all of them."

"Then you must face all of them, hm. You know this already. Stop wasting my time with questions fit for a novice."

And that was an unfair, but effective, strike. Qui-Gon closed his eyes. Obi-Wan, he knew – he remembered, he had witnessed – was gifted with premonitory visions. Had in fact been bombarded mercilessly with them since early childhood, living sometimes under the shadow of incomprehensible omens, harrowing certainties too complex for a young mind to fathom, too horrible for any child to suffer. And yet he had never _complained_ of the burden, only occasionally wept or whimpered in the throes of uninvited insight. Such an example of courage could inspire a senseless _rock_ to noble action; he, Qui-Gon had no right to balk here and now at the threshold of the unfamiliar.

He took the plunge into the unknown, rooting himself deep, deep within the Force as the world gently dissolved into coiling smoke, into sinuous ribbons and eddies of color, of sound, of texture. He breathed in the molten detritus , and then breathed out – watching in awe as it twisted, danced and spun and reconstituted itself, solidifying into familiar shapes and voices.

_Qui-Gon! Qui-Gon!_

_He looked up, and up… and there was Tahl, wreathed in the last tendrils of smoke… no, of mist. The waterfall pounded into a white frenzy below her, perpetually shattering upon the jagged rocks. _

_Don't jump, he cautioned, but his voice blew away on the grey mist, on the roaring voice of the water._

_She was young – young as she had been in the Temple, before her apprenticeship. He realized that she stood upon the summit of the falls unclothed, tawny skin pure and smooth, dark hair cascading over slim shoulders, unbound, fluttering like a parting curtain over the gentle curves of her body._

_Don't try it, he cried out, but she never listened, and she launched over the edge anyway, in a long and perfect swan dive, graceful and weightless, seeming to float rather than fall. The churning maelstrom swallowed her, and he gasped in horror…_

_And then in joy, as she waded out of the shallows, gathering the rising mist about herself, weaving it in midair with her hands until it wound itself into an ephemeral ghostly garment, a bridal veil, a funerary shroud. Through its translucent folds he could see the first soft buds of her womanhood, and he lowered his eyes, to rest upon her golden feet instead_

"_Qui-Gon," the child-Tahl spoke. "Why are you here?"_

"_To learn," he murmured, ashamed without understanding why._

"_You have much to unlearn first," Tahl told him, and then –when he grasped at her, impulsively throwing himself at her feet –_

_she disappeared into the mist, into the coiling smoke, into the bleeding miasma of appearances…_

_Shifting and reforming…breathe… breathe… there is only the Force…_

_The ribbons and tatters coalesced into walls, into a dak enclosure, a tomb, a prison: a chamber hewn of some rough smoke-hued stone, windowless and cheerless. Upon a crude bunk fixed to the wall there lay a single despondent figure, dark tunics rumpled, a tumble of long hair – darkish, perhaps, for it was hard to make out detail in the smothering gloom._

_A young man, asleep or past caring what befell him, his face turned to the wall, one ankle and one wrist shackled loosely to the stone._

_The Force was nowhere present – like a castaway pet, it mewled and scratched at the door, unable to penetrate the borders of this prison, this fortress of void. _

_He pushed through the murky darkness, the cloying emptiness, recognizing the harsh place… the cell buried deep beneath the Temple's foundations... and felt a terrible surge of pity, of vital protectiveness, for the suffering youth here incarcerated._

_He knelt, reaching out a hand to brush aside the tangled skein of hair, to grasp a hunched shoulder. _

"_Xanatos," he sighed, gently turning his former apprentice onto his back._

_Limpid blue eyes gazed up at him in shock, in horrified recognition._

_And Qui-Gon choked on his next breath, smoke clotting in his lungs, wracking him with violent coughs._

"Easy now," the Old One's voice chuffed, a heavy hand thumping upon his back.

Eyes streaming, mind reeling, Qui-Gon gasped for air. "Obi-Wan!" he exclaimed, the name half-strangled by denial. "…No. It can't be. No."

"There is more," the ancient one chided. "Do not falter now."

_He fell back through welling clouds of smoke, of rising fog, of clinging cold moisture. He hung suspended upon a rock face, white veils rolling and parting about him – above, below, as far as the mind could reach. And he struggled upward, climbing the slick stretch of lichen-crusted stone centimeter by centimeter, fingers bleeding and shoulders aching, his scuffed and torn boots slipping as he sought purchase, only sheerest willpower and the Force keeping him aloft._

_Up, ever upward. Beyond his vision, beyond his power of reckoning, there was a summit – a goal which he must reach at all costs._

_And still he climbed, hand over hand, in an agony of effort._

_And on, and on, ever upward, the clouds gathering about him in a heavy mantle, an obscuring and dizzying wreath._

…_of smoke, of coiling tendrils, of smoldering ash…_

And was released, his senses gently plunged back into the earthy scent of the Old One's dwelling, the moldy walls and rough-hewn rafters, the peering visage of the ancient being himself, the hollow music of reed-chimes outside the open door. Utterly exhausted, aching and nauseated, he groaned once and weakly pushed himself upright, profoundly relieved for the damp breeze that wafted in from the swamp, wicking cold sweat from his face.

"Rest now," the master of the swamp advised. "We shall speak when you have recovered."

* * *

They warmed up with the novice level Makashi velocities, gradually increasing in tempo as they progressed through the strictly choreographed dance, binding and honing their subliminal connection in the Force. _Tai fortex_ demanded absolute harmony between partners – mental shields attenuated, focus attuned severely to Dooku's lead, Obi-Wan barely felt the curious stares of the eager onlookers to the match, barely saw the walls and floor of their chosen arena in the largest senior level salle. There was only the dance of blades, and the Force – here a thing of strict majesty, lightning cast from heaven, the brewing power of an utterly controlled storm.

"That will do," Dooku's soft voice ordered, and they ceased as one, searing weapons disappearing into their hilts in a consonant hiss.

The padawan did not allow the quasi-trance to fade; he remained partly submersed beneath the Force's currents, a tuning fork set to his master's fundamental tone, a saber compressed within its hilt but ready for instant conflict. He followed sedately behind the Sentinel as the silver-haired man strode around the perimeter of the room, heading for the entrance where their selected opponents politely waited.

"Yan," a deep and unmistakable baritone rang out.

"An honor," Dooku replied, returning Mace Windu's impeccably polite bow.

Behind Master Windu, Feld Spruu's blue face broke into a fierce grin. "Master Dooku. Padawan Kenobi." The Twi'Lek Knight made his obeisance with a dramatic flourish that would be unbecoming in any other Jedi but seemed a natural extension of his ebullient grace.

"This should be good," Mace Windu remarked, striding to the center of the open space with a distinctly anticipatory delight edging his Force signature.

Feld continued grinning; Dooku's eyes glittered with satisfaction; Obi-Wan sank a little further into the Force, the coiled tempest of the contest ahead like a hot bath, a thrilling heat burbling in the invisible currents.

Four pairs of eyes studied one another intently; four saber hilts gleamed in the bright illumination. Giddy expectation, deadly calm, laughing challenge swirled and settled like silt in a running river. A moment of purest stillness, of selfless peace in which four long breaths were released…

And then the fourfold joyful collision, green and blue and violet fire leaping instantaneously into an explosion of screaming light and motion. Howling blades clashed, spun, met and parted in a desperate moment, four separate fluid arcs of color traced in the scorched air while the 'sabers sand their discordant notes, high and low, a symphony of opposition.

The Masters surged together like two electrical storms, power and grace, speed and skill evenly matched, Vapaad's thunderclouds meeting the arctic front of Makashi ice in a cataclysmic and dazzling hurricane; their lesser satellites broke away, furiously dueling in a wide ring about this destructive center. Feld's lekku skirled and spun about his head as he ducked and parried and reversed direction in an erratic whirl; Obi-Wan's attack carried him in sailing bounds over, above, daring and aggressive strikes showering down upon his foe from every direction. The floorboards were scorched, the air rampant with the scent of ozone and the actinic fire of battle.

And then they rejoined, two against two, a fair match of titans and heroes, the 'sabers now shrieking in deafening unison as they met in a double bind, sparks and hot effluvia raining at their feet. In the heart of the conflict, the Force blossomed like an opening lotus, floating upon the waters, basking in the Light; yoked together by a tenuous _tai fortex_ bond, master and padawan became for an instant one thing, flowing and cascading along the timeless channels of discipline.

Obi-Wan gave himself over to it, rendering himself a mere blade, an extension of Dooku's own weapon, an extension of the Force itself. His temples throbbed with it, his blood sang with it, he seemed to burn with it like a true 'saber's edge, immolated and consumed by purest radiance. And he fought without effort, without desire, without thought, eyes closed and weapon screaming with blinding ecstatic speed.

Feld fell to his onslaught; Dooku slipped beneath a bind and skittered away across the floor, an unspoken command carrying his apprentice forward to close hand-to-hand with the formidable Korun master.

Mace Windu swept his violet 'saber in a warning circle, eyes glinting with deep concentration, with the raging Dark that gnashed and railed against its bonds, the razor's edge of Vaapad etched in every line of his ebony features, in the howling glory of his weapon. Past thinking, past fear, Obi-Wan seized his _shoto's_ hilt, flipping it in midair before igniting the furious sapphire blade and throwing himself headfirst into the impossible fray.

Dooku pinned Feld against the wall with a flick of the wrist, keeping a wary and observant distance as his protégé took one of the finest swordsmen in the galaxy.

The battle was a thing of splendor, a youthful tide crashing in battle array against an unyielding stone fortress, thranctill and draigon now, a dizzying flurry of strikes and counterstrikes, two wild duelists plunging headlong through the Force's luminous skies, heedless, fearless, Light pouring through them like sieves as they wrung strength and power out of thin air, out of the pandemonium of their clashing blades…

At last, Obi-Wan leapt, slashing downward in a bold and reckless double attack - and took Mace's boot in the ribs, crashing to the floor breathless, _shoto _ rolling out of his slackening grip. The violet blade hovered an inch above his collarbone, and he found himself abruptyl gazing upward at the spinning ceiling, the wavering lines of Mace Windu's sweat-slicked face.

"…Yield," he choked out when his chest stopped spasming.

The Korun Jedi's saber snapped back into its hilt as its owner gently dropped to one knee beside his vanquished opponent. "You all right, son?"

A strong arm levered him upright. "… I'm… still in one piece, Master," the young Jedi muttered wryly.

Mace Windu's mien softened with unlikely humor. "If you hadn't fought so well, I wouldn't have resorted to desperate measures."

Obi-Wan stumbled to his feet, the need to double over conveniently serving as a respectful bow. "Thank you for the lesson," he wheezed.

Dooku appeared behind him. "Impressive."

"Impressive indeed," Master Windu concurred, with a grave nod. His brows lowered fractionally. "Dangerous, in point of fact."

"We play a dangerous game," the Sentinel murmured, darkly.

The other senior Jedi nodded, holding out a hand to invite Feld Spruu back into their circle.

The Twi'Lek bowed deeply to the eldest member of the company. "An honor to spar with you, Master Dooku."

"Indeed." He was dismissed with an elegant wave of the hand, and disappeared in the direction of the shower rooms, winking at his young agemate.

Obi-Wan discreetly clutched at his side, wondering how _many_ ribs were broken.

Dooku seemed at last to notice his distress. "Tush, boy," he chided. "Clean up and have that looked at. I will fetch you later. Today's performance was… highly satisfactory."

Having thus received the ultimate compliment and been sent packing in one breath, the padawan limped away, summoning his fallen _shoto_ back into his grip as he crossed the polished floorboards. A trick of the acoustics, or the last surreal echo of his shattered battle-mind, carried the older men's conversation to his ears.

"I've seldom seen anything like that … especially in a padawan. You're fanning a dangerous flame."

"You doubt my ability to hold it in check?"

A pause. Mace Windu's sonorous voice dropped another octave. "No. But what happens when you let loose the reins? I feel _responsible_. Qui-Gon was a friend."

Dooku snorted softly. "You forget that I too knew Qui-Gon well. But Kenobi is another matter altogether."

"I'll say. The Council is … concerned."

"And I assure you: the Sentinels are competent to train and discipline our own. I should think that you, of all persons, might appreciate the ..nuances… of our calling."

A rumbling sigh. "I am not a man of _nuances, _Yan."

Dooku's polished inflection was crisp with irony. "Then I suggest you leave them to those who are." The click of boot heels against wood flooring rapidly drew nigh; Obi-Wan hastened his own painful progress to the showers, unwilling to be caught eavesdropping by Dooku in a sour mood.

His aching ribs made it easy to push the conversation and its vague anxieties aside, into the textured oblivion where he had relegated so many, many other things.

After all, he must keep his focus on the present moment, where it belonged.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Oh, Obi…. not again."

Bant Eerin heaved a resigned sigh and calibrated the bioscanner for human anatomy, her large aquatic eyes blinking slowly as she frowned over her childhood friend.

As resigned to his fate as his Mon Cal companion was to hers, Obi-Wan crossed his arms over his bare chest and glowered at the examination room's bland wall. "I don't harbor a bizarre injury fetish, if that's what you're hypothesizing."

She tugged at one elbow, undoing the unconscious defensive knot, and passed the scanner over his battered ribcage. "You defy all theories, Obi. You're a rogue." Ignoring the horrible scowl this earned her, she checked the readout. "No, nothing fractured – that's just interstitial bruising. And you've lost another half-kilo."

"Force forbid."

"Better fatten up your scrawny hide, or I'll order a test for tapeworm. You don't even want to _imagine_ what that entails."

The distasteful threat coaxed a tiny smile out of hiding. "It's not parasites – it's sitting at table with Reeft."

Bant's webbed hands rested upon her hips. "He's not been in Temple for months, and you know it. This isn't funny, Obi – what's eating at you?"

He turned away, mouth tightening. Bant tugged on his thick nerftail, but the teasing gesture produced no response.

"I'm worried about you."

It was blackmail, but efficacious blackmail. "You shouldn't, Bant. I'm fine. I'm doing what I must. If I could just…." he broke off with a sigh, and sprang down from his perch upon the exam table. "Truly, Bant. I'm fine." A winning smile, wide enough to display a pair of grooved dimples, stood witness to the bold claim.

The apprentice healer shook her head dubiously as he shrugged into his dark tunic. "I don't believe you."

He leaned down, accenting their difference in heights- an advantage he was, in all honesty, rarely able to deploy. "Worry about me when I decide to willingly linger here in your mephitic domain." He clipped both sabers at his belt and made for the door. "Force keep you."

"And you." She watched him go, round mouth puckered in concern and vestigial gills flaring with a restless foreboding she could not define.

* * *

When the tumult in his senses eventually died down to a disgruntled murmur beneath his pulse, Qui-Gon dared sip at the pungent, salty broth thrust into his hands by his eccentric host.

"Visions can deceive," he muttered, more to himself then the implacable ancient squatting opposite him. "They can show what we dread, the distortions wrought upon truth by our passions."

His protestations fell on deaf ears. "These visions do not lie," the Old One huffed. "My mirror is not warped; my pool unruffled. You may trust the Force here – we are not subject to imbalance as you know it."

The tall man's composure cracked momentarily. "My padawan…."

"You renounced such claims and burdens when you left your Temple, Jedi. Your heart is like the lotus – intertwined with that which will destroy you in the end. You seek enlightenment, but you are mired in attachment. And if you refuse to uproot either your birthright or the twisted anchorline of those attachements… well, then…. you will suffer."

Qui-Gon Jinn was unintimidated. "Then I will suffer."

The ancient being's deepset eyes regarded him with pity. "And others shall suffer."

Unbound hair falling over his shoulders, the Jedi master bowed his head. "Such has never been my intent."

"And yet, it is still your doing."

Tormented, the wanderer closed his eyes and exhaled, pain carving deep lines around his eyes and across his high sloping forehead. "If I could just _speak_ to him… I haven't contacted him in all these months.. our paths are not together any longer – it was his wish to remain behind – "

His companion stood, joints popping and creaking. "You were close. Why do you not touch him through the Force?"

Qui-Gon made no answer.

"That which pervades us also binds us one to another; what you call Life and Unity are not truly disparate. Speak to your apprentice, if this is what you wish. Distance is as illusory as time."

Perturbation settling deep in his gut, the lingering miasma of the Old One's smoke wafting like incense upon the humid air, feeling the Force pool and eddy here as nowhere else, the pilgrim drew in a deep breath and centered himself in the profoundest nexus of being, where time and distance were indeed inconsequential.

And reached across a half-galaxy.

* * *

Obi-Wan stumbled upon the lift's threshold.

He caught his balance easily enough, and leaned against the interior handrail, brows coming together in a bewildered frown. There had been a moment…. there in the concourse….

The carriage deposited him in an open arcade, one lined on the western side by tall elliptical windows and floored in a deep and muted carpet. His boots made not a sound as he strode along its length, lengthening his pace in the shadows between effulgent sunbeams, pulling his cloak hood over his face on a sudden urge to…. _Disappear._

He stopped, that same feeling…. That sense of urgency….

He abruptly sat on an inset bench, the world seeming to tilt alarmingly beneath him. Was he _faint?_ Bant could not possibly be correct about his overall health, could she? He had been _sparring_ against Master Windu an hour ago, for stars' sake – hardly a pathetic invalid's avocation….

He pulled his cowl further forward, shadowing his face, as a small band of older initiates passed by, accompanied by their clanmaster. They recognized the universal signal to respect his privacy and continued on without offering any greeting. And yet again, that certainty of being summoned…. He exhaled, shutting out all distractions, grounding himself in the omnipresent Force.

A warm presence settled on the bench beside him.

He dared not so much as glance sideways, or even open his eyes. He basked in the familiarity, the gentle _chiming_ in the Light, the impalpable cool breath of a living forest, the foundation and sureness of home. A melting relief spread along his spine, through his viscera.

…_Master?_

A pang of longing, of regret, of dread…. And then Qui-Gon was gone.

"Master!"

But there was nobody there; indeed, there could not have been anyone there. Obi-Wan found himself on his feet, shaking as he might after a harrowing vision; he stared at the vacant place on the bench where – in his delusion, or delirium, or madness – he had _felt_ the living presence of one so oft yearned for that the ache had grown in to the very texture of his psyche.

Disappointment closed his throat, but he turned sharply on his heel and stormed away from the spot, outpacing the idle phantasms of an overburdened heart.

* * *

Dooku only needed to take one look at him.

"You've overdone it," the Sentinel observed, dark eyes gleaming with a rarely displayed solicitousness. "Between last night's escapades and this morning's sparring match, perhaps you've neglected to obtain sufficient rest?"

Obi-Wan nodded, headache stirring ominously beneath his pulse. "Yes, Master."

The older man raised a silver brow, but apparently this morning's stellar performance in the dojo had restored his apprentice to his good graces; he merely waved an imperious hand at the smaller bedroom and silently followed as the padawan trudged his way into the small chamber and collapsed backward upon its low sleep-couch.

"What did the healers have to say?" Dooku inquired. He perched upon the mattress' edge, undoing the young Jedi's tunic closure with a cool and objective efficiency. He passed fingers over the livid bruise, mouth set in a thin line.

Obi-Wan let his eyes drift closed, indifferent to the man's brusque ministrations, aware dimly that Dooku would treat a scratch upon his saber's hilt or a rent in his cloak in much the same manner; his master kept all his personal accoutrements in meticulous order. "Nothing broken," he grunted in reply.

"Good," the Jedi master decided. A spreading warmth suffused the injury as the Force's healing power was brought to bear.

It was but the fulfillment of a simple duty, but the gesture held such a plethora of other meanings, echoes of things remembered, that it redoubled the aching disappointment of a few minutes earlier. It ill-befitted a Jedi to _pine…_ and so Obi-Wan merely curled his hands into fists and accepted the pallid replacement, permitting Dooku to tend his minor aggravation – and even to slide a subtle mental probe beneath his compromised shields, an invasion not technically beyond the bounds of his teaching prerogative.

The Sentinel was nothing if not perceptive; a few silent moments revealed much to his questing mind. He sighed. "You do know that Qui-Gon is far too obstinate to repent of his idiosyncrasies."

There was a grain of truth in the statement. "Better than most, I think – even the Council."

They almost shared a twist of dark humor, a breath of jaded amusement.

"Do not center on your anxieties, but rather upon your _purpose."_ Dooku's hand moved to rest upon his apprentice's forehead, lightly spanning his temples. "I think we are all but ready to _act…_ when the opportunity presents itself."

An older or wiser man might not have mistaken this pledge of confidence for paternal pride – and a part of Obi-Wan already realized the danger of misinterpretation. But present need begged this more cynical awareness to hold its peace and allow the other, unlikely, point of view its short-lived reign; he deferred the bitter knowledge until some later date, surrendering his psychic barriers another exhausted increment, in commemoration of that which _had been._

Dooku smiled tightly at the subtle acknowledgment of his dominance. "Now sleep," he commanded… and was instantly obeyed.

* * *

"It has not yet come to pass," Qui-Gon Jinn murmured, voice rasping with a melting relief. "There is still time."

The Old One neither confirmed nor denied this assertion, but merely watched him sagely, crouched upon his worn cushion with gnarled hands folded in his lap. His head swayed back and forth gently at the end of his bowed neck.

The tall man closed his eyes, savoring that briefest taste of communion. "We formed a close bond… an exceptional one… almost immediately. It was the will of the Force. He should have followed me."

The ancient one snorted derisively. "You have much to learn."

"Then teach me!" Frustrated, the Jedi master stood, his head cracking painfully upon the earthen ceiling. He grimaced.

"Teach such a headstrong wastrel? Pfffsst. I think not. Let the Whills tame your indocile spirit, Qui-Gon Jinn. I have weightier matters to tend: my lotus and my weeds. Your petty struggles I cannot solve."

At the mention of those he so earnestly sought, the tall man dropped to one knee, in the traditional posture of humility. "I do indeed have much to learn. Send me to those who can teach it. Tell me where I may find the Shaman."

The Old One's beaked mouth clicked peevishly. "I do not know where he dwells."

The blow shuddered through the plenum. Qui-Gon's shoulders slumped.

"But I shall send you to those that do. You are proud, and obstinate, and neglectful. But you spared the chokewort for the sake of the lotus, and your courage did not fail you in the face of truth. You are not worthy, Jedi – do you understand this? But you may be admitted nonetheless."

One hand gripping his saber's hilt, anchoring him in the Force's bedrock, Qui-Gon bowed his head and waited, a supplicant before the Old One's moldy throne.

"You will go to the moons of Iego. They will receive you there."

"Iego? But who-"

The ancient master withdrew a half-wilted lotus blossom from a pouch slung about his girth. "Give this to Her. And if she deems you acceptable, she will direct your steps to the Shaman's doorstep."

Qui-Gon accepted the strange token reverently, tucking the soft petals inside his fraying tunic. "I understand."'

"That is all I have to tell you. Now: eat with me before you go. And then go, and do not look back."

The words bore all the solemnity of a sacred charge; Qui-Gon looked up, wondering at the grotesque and eccentric creature squatting before him. "I will," he promised. "But…Master…. who are you?"

The Old One's only answer was an enigmatic smile.

* * *

When he woke, Dooku was gone – likely enough he had interred himself deep in the Archives catacomb levels where the most restricted and obscure historical artifacts were stored. It was from such abstruse researches that the location of the B'tmothi holocron had been deduced; and it was to such arcane sources of knowledge that the Sentinel habitually turned when more conventional avenues ran to a dead end.

_We shall be patient_ was no favored adage of the revered Jedi master; his was a thorough and merciless resolution, one that balked at nothing to obtain its goal, left no stone unturned.

Obi-Wan sated his raging thirst with a half-liter of cold water from the filter system, and wandered across the common room. The holochess board was the only source of light in the dim apartment – flickering monsters stood arrayed in frozen postures of belligerence, perpetually brandishing weapon and claw. He frowned, considering Dooku's most recent move, and then thoughtfully drew a hand over his lightly stubbled chin, weighing options.

His Houjix all but begged for a chance to crush his nearest opponent and seize control of the strategically essential middle orbit; but he wagged a finger at it.

"We shall be patient." He nudged the Monnok forward instead, smirking faintly to himself.

The subdued _ping_ of his comlink roused him from his tactical speculations. "Kenobi."

A pleased hesitance at the other end of the link betrayed the caller's identity. "What are you doing tonight, after tenth hour?"

His brows rose. "Meditating on the sublimity of pure being. Yourself?"

Siri Tachi's voice- even mediated by the 'link – raised delicate hairs along his nape. "Sparring with you."

"Oh?"

"We're both out of practice, Kenobi. Admit it."

"Have you reserved a private dojo?" he inquired, the invitation fluttering oddly in his belly.

Another pause. "I have a better idea," Siri said. "The old rotunda on the fifth basement level – the deepest one, against the southern foundation buttress."

Trespassing upon the Temple's ancient and historically rich sublevels was, if not explicitly proscribed, certainly discouraged. "I'll be there," he said.

"I'll wait for you… presuming you don't lose your nerve."

"Not to worry; if I do, we'll be sure to find it loitering with your wits."

The double challenge thus issued, they fell silent, mutually unwilling to end the comm.

Siri couldn't resist. "And get a haircut," she added, huskily. "Or I'll trim it _for_ you."

The hells she would - not that he would exactly mind. But still. "I look forward to dispelling your delusions of grandeur, Padawan Tachi." He cut the link.

And brought his somewhat erratic respiration under better control.


	9. Chapter 9

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Temple Archivist Jocasta Nu was a power unto her own right, a force to be reckoned with. Her severely disciplined bun of alabaster hair was caught up behind her head and fixed in place with a supple pin, a dark length of haffa-wood thrust with merciless precision through the soft coils. It had fascinated Obi-Wan since he was three years old, and naïve enough to suppose the thing to serve a dual purpose as deadly weapon.

He was not afraid of her _now,_ of course.

He was simply impeccably respectful in her presence.

Madame Nu's thin lips curled into a gracious smile when he made his request. "I am sorry, Padawan, but Master Dooku explicitly gave instructions that he is to be disturbed upon no account whatsoever. Besides, it is hardly proper for me to issue you into the lower levels. They are highly restricted."

She emphasized the last word slightly, a reminder of rank and duty. He dipped his head. "Yes, Madame, I understand. But I need to convey a message to him…. I don't suppose there is a droid, or an attendant, who might be sent?'

"This is a _library,_ Padawan Kenobi, not a courier service."

Lips pressing together in frustration, Obi-Wan shifted tactics. "Master Dooku summoned me here... but he seems to have turned off his commlink. I do not wish to keep him waiting; he must have a task for me to complete. Perhaps there is research he wishes me to undertake?"

This was more to the Archivist's liking. "Hm," she sniffed. "I'll go speak with Yan in person." And she floated away, the stiff brocade of her floorlength tabards barely moving as she skimmed across the polished marble floor toward the far doors. Obi-Wan exhaled and wandered into the adjacent stacks, idly perusing the contents of the Galactic history section.

He levitated _History of the Teth Dynasties Volume XXIII_ down from its high eyrie and ran a finger along the contents page, surveying the various chapter headings with a distinctly lackluster half-smile. He had to admit: even his ordinarily cherished avocations seemed no longer to hold their wonted charm.

_Siri._ He glanced at the chronometer: half past eighth hour. This had better not take _too _long…

Presently Jocasta Nu returned from her _private conference _ with Dooku. The latter person's apprentice wondered –with a flicker of dark amusement – whether he beheld the only living being capable of giving the intimidating Sentinel a proper dressing down. Certainly Madame Nu's triumphant mincing gait was suggestive of a haughty rectitude and the recent discharge of authoritative vitriol.

"He wishes you to access the Dantooine Enclave database and cross-index any stored artifact documentation concerning the B'tmothi ancient cults," she informed the padawan, sweetly.

Oh, yes. Dooku was smarting, somewhere down in the forbidden sublevels. Obi-Wan's grin briefly broke from hiding and fled over his face, causing Madame Nu to lift a censorious brow.

He sobered instantly. "Thank you." He made a proper bow.

"I'll prepare a study alcove for you," she graciously offered, leading the way to a dark corner of the main levels.

The realization that he was going to be _very_ late for his appointed rendezvous in the ancient rotunda chamber was _almost_ enough to drive away the pleasure of Dooku's imagined chastisement. But there was no help for it now. He set diligently to work, determined to transmute the intervening hours into dim memory.

_Siri._

* * *

His progress back across the swamp was an excruciating slog through endless stretches of reeking mud and the perpetual onslaught of bloodsucking skeeters. Qui-Gon pressed forward doggedly, centering on the present moment, on each weary drag of his boots through the viscous sludge underfoot.

And yet the future seemed to hang like a pestilent phantom before him, always just over the horizon of his present sojourn, a malicious and mocking voice echoing down the misty avenues of muck and drooping foliage. The dreadful vision of Tahl, of the arduous ascent up an unknown cliff, and most especially of his _Padawan –_

_-_former Padawan –

-remained emblazoned upon his inner eye like a searing afterimage, allowing him no respite from the nebulous anxiety they inspired. He cursed himself for a novice and a fool – here he was, over fifty years old, and assaulted by a vapid and indistinct _bad feeling._

_Focus on the present moment, where it belongs! _he sternly chided himself.

_But Master Yoda always said that we should be mindful of the future,_ his personal devil's advocate retorted. It sounded, as always, alarmingly similar to Obi-Wan, right down to the invisible smirk behind the neatly enunciated words. _And Master Seva says that the present is only the shadow of the future. And Master Fu-Shee says that he who does not look ahead will end up on his behind. And Master –_

_And,_ he grouchily interrupted the eager tirade, _Master Jinn says he whose tongue runs in the present will find his feet running many laps around the Temple perimeter in future._

Having thus triumphed over his imaginary interlocutor, he promptly slipped and fell into a sinkhole that lay directly in his path. Because he wasn't attending to the present moment.

With a hearty curse, he used the Force to lever himself free and stumbled his disgruntled way onward.

* * *

Obi-Wan uploaded the results of his lengthy researches onto a secure datachit and left it for Dooku at the Archives main desk, hoping his master would be pleased; he had discovered the existence of a B'tmothi scroll – not a holodoc, a real vellum based manuscript – that appeared to relate to the lost artifact in the dead moon's ancient tombs. A _missing link._ One unlikely to have been seized by whomever had stolen the holocron, for the Dantooine Enclave was still held by the Jedi Order, and was reputedly inviolable by intruders.

He thanked the sleepy staff member on duty and bolted for the Archives main exit, noting with a twist of chagrin that it was nearly _midnight._

"Blast it!" Senior Padawan or not, he ran.

* * *

When it was done laughing at his expense, the Living Force did – at long last – provide a badly-needed solution.

Another of the archaic reptilian monsters that lurked beneath the swamp's surface roused itself from its habitual torpor enough to respond to his carefully nuanced mind-trick. It was a risky venture, but Qui-Gon assured himself that his chosen steed could be no more fractious than any one of his three apprentices, and boasted the further benefit of having no ability to issue impudent repartee.

At length, the creature turned its ponderous head in the direction of Nal Hutta, and the Jedi master, astride its massive neck, found himself skimming at a breathtaking pace across the bog's malodorous expanse, a cresting and scum laden wake rippling behind them.

He parted ways with his reluctant partner at the edge of the inhabited precinct and trudged to the outskirts of the spaceport, where the largest shipping freighters stood upon magnetic moorings. Cold, soaked to his bones, and famished, he surveyed the lean pickings Most were on a Coreward itinerary, or owned by piratical captains too ruffianly even for his taste; but one – of an oddly bulbous hull design, on the far side of the cracked platform - hailed from Toydaria and was slotted to make a lengthy delivery tour in the far-flung sector most proximate to Iego.

Qui-Gon Jinn had always favored the direct approach. He strode forward to the lowered ramps, where the ship's captain fluttered vexedly, held aloft by his protruding gas sack and propelled in a slow meandering path by his small, leathery wings. A rag tag mercenary crew of diverse species milled about the access hatches and ran cargo crates into the hold, obviously making final flight preparations.

"Excuse me." He nearly choked; the captain reeked of stale bacci , enough to confirm that he was a chain smoker.

"What? No handout, beggar. I gotta ship to get off the ground here," the hovering commandante snapped at him, oversized nasal appendage waggling irritably as he dismissed the tall man.

Beggar? Did he truly appear so destitute and desperate? Swallowing down his own flare of vexation, Qui-Gon adopted a humble tone. "Any need of an extra hand on board? I can do manual labor, and I'm looking for a way off-planet."

The Toydarian turned in midair and studied him over the curve of his mottled nose, eyes narrowing in frank appraisal. "No – and I don't pay well, either. Get lost."

A small knot of crew members came panting up from one of the adjoining spaceport buildings.

"You're late!" the diminutive captain roared at them. "And where's that knucklehead Kreebo?"

A murmuring and gesticulating conversation in Toydarian, and then –

"You!" the captain barked at the Jedi master, who had maintained a cautious distance, hood pulled over his face. "One of my idiot crew got his throat slit in a gaming parlour. You wanna berth? It pays nothing, so don't get excited."

"I accept."

"Who'd you kill?" the Toydarian jested. "Our next port is Uegga. Far enough out for you? Thought so. Shut up and get on board. You report to the galley, got it? And no fighting on board. I don't like the decks messy." He turned to spit expressively upon the tarmac and to bark orders at the rest of his crew.

Qui-Gon hurried up the ramp behind the others.

* * *

"You're late," Siri Tachi stamped, one hand resting on the curve of her hip, damp undertunic clinging softly to her torso.

He skidded to a halt upon the threshold, arrested by the mere _glimpse _ of – "Siri."

"Well, good _morning," _ she growled. "Nice of you to show up. I was getting bored."

"You waited," he pointed out, closing the distance between them until an electric hand's-width of tension rippled in the Force, in their suddenly deepening breaths.

"I wasn't _waiting_ for you, Kenobi," Siri corrected him, tartly. "I was practicing _kata_ so I can whip your sorry arse. You inconsiderate boor."

Adrenaline.. or something…. made his belly squirm and a melting heat spread at the base of his spine. "I was detained." He was also rapidly losing any semblance of control.

Fortunately, so was she. "I'll _detain_ you," Siri all but panted.

Negotiate. Stall for time. Yes, that's what he should do. "It's been so long…. How are you?"

She drew herself up, a pillar of golden radiance in the Force, as soft and as hard-edged as a virgin sun rising. "I'm… fine."

Overstatement. She needed… something. He would give her anything. "Siri…"

She wanted his unconditional surrender first. She was like that. "Ben'ke. What's wrong? Tell me."

No, no, he never ever thought about this he never spoke about it – but he would give her anything, bare his soul first if she asked…. "I miss him," he blurted, like a pathetic youngling. "And Tahl. And you."

And there was more. "I'm to be a Shadow."

Siri frowned over this. "The hells you are, Kenobi."

"I am. And , Siri… Siri…"

No, no, no – he mustn't – but her hand was on his face, a calloused thumb playing along his chin, and it was _her, _ and though he clenched his jaw it still trembled and he could not say aloud that which weighed most heavily upon him, the burning ember that scorched his conscience like an unfulfilled oath. _I am to kill Syfo-Dyas. I will be his death. I am his death. I am death._

"No you aren't," Siri murmured, absolute certainty in her voice.

The tears welled up and poured over his barriers, falling one at a time onto her fingers. Siri didn't care. She wiped them away, and then she kissed them away and then –

He held on fast to the sure anchorline of her faith in him, the dark seas churning now on every side, rising like a black tide until every constellation but that of her unwavering belief in his _light_ had been smothered. Siri was bedrock and sure foundation, the guiding voice of the Force compacted into a single warm presence, as though gross matter were here but lantern and vessel for the luminous inner spirit; voice and breath and beating heart but the corona of his only unfailing star.

She held him tightly, her arms containing the sobs within the circle of their private avowal. "You're so unhappy," she lamented.

Understatement. "I'm terrified."

"But that's not going to stop you." She knew him too well; indeed, her tightening embrace declared that she would have it no other way, that she burned with admiration for that within him which also terrified her – and then she threw caution to the winds, and opened the last dangerous abyss beneath their feet. "I love you."

They could so easily _fall_ from this precarious balance, so easily plummet into bliss-

"Siri… there is _nothing_ we can have – you know this – "

"I'm not keeping anything," she told him. "I'm only giving."

And that overturned all argument. She offered him _everything, _ even the remembered pain of her own darkest moment, and she was at the same time terrified by the offer, yet undaunted by her own fear. "I love you , Siri." It was true. Even if duty and destiny ripped them apart again, possibly forever, he would not lie, not to her, not to the Force.

They could so easily _fall, _ so easily _surrender – _ the shroud of the future drew closer, closer, stifling – but now, in the present moment, they _could_ simply soar away together, over the brink into bliss, into Light – _giving_ and _healing - _

No no no - sparring, he desperately impressed upon her crumbling shields: they were here to _spar, _ confound it all, not to –

"Kenobi. You are an adorable ass."

He hoped that was an overstatement.

And then Siri made the first strike, as she always did, as she always would .

Never one to back down from a direct challenge, he met her with a bold and open counterstrike. They dispensed with the formality of 'sabers and went straight to grappling, far too engaged in the contest to speak any further words. Siri's body was taut-soft-warm-smooth and the skin of her neck scented of some _yarbai _herbal soap, and her mouth tasted of a wine better than Dooku's finest most rarefied vintage. He was instantly drunk on it.

"Sparring," he mumbled minutes later, breathing as though they had already done three rounds and then some.

Siri untwisted her fingers from his hair and pushed against his chest, propelling him teasingly backward, backward, retreating…

"I would win anyway ," she growled. "Just surrender."

…into the wall.

"Siri!" he protested.

But she pressed herself up against him , and there was no escape and he was fairly certain that _surrender _should in no way, no Force-blessed manner, feel quite this pleasant or melting or urgent, and –

_Siri._ His hands strayed lower, sliding over the taut dip of her lower back, under her belt, lower, around the tantalizing double curves beneath, pulling her _closer, upward–_

She arched and gasped, hands tearing painfully at his hair again. "_…oh. Oh…"_

"You surrender," he whispered, not caring that she was _biting_, ouch ouch ouch for _Force's sake –_

-Never mind, it was all right and pain and loss were forgotten and balance was restored and they plummeted into one another's minds, and they were one thing, one soaring dive through inner heaven, shields down, souls mingling, double surrender, double victory, and _this _ time – _this _ time –

Somehow Siri's hands had burrowed beneath his tunic, hands skimming and stroking, her _need_ cascading over the blurring line between their two psyches until he melted with it, shuddered at her touch, gasped in his turn … he reached into the Force for both of them – no no no there is peace serenity there is no - Siri's lips smooth soft perfect enticing mandrangea blossoms holy sweet _–worship her, _honor her, avatar of the Living Force, Siri's touch _ohhh Force help me no don't - _ intertwining moans, soft tendrils of moist breath coiling, tightening, the Force _singing, glorious, - resplendent, incandescent –_ and then -

"…Ahem."


	10. Chapter 10

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Siri Tachi spun about, instinctively taking up a bold protective stance in front of Obi-Wan.

Yan Dooku's silver brows rose, cool irony exuding off him in palpable waves. "Brave, Padawan Tachi, but…ah… unnecessary."

Rigid posture slackening into horrified realization as rational thought penetrated the haze of thwarted passion, Siri sucked in a shaking breath and bowed to the Jedi master standing limned in the opposite doorway's pale light. His shadow fell softly over the two padawans, a long hand reaching across the time-worn stones of the ancient meeting-room.

"Master Dooku," she muttered, flooding mortification threatening to drown her voice.

Obi-Wan was impressed; he had assumed that Siri was inherently immune to all forms of intimidation. In the next instant, all thought was driven from his mind by a sudden and thorough mental probe- one swift and uncompromising enough to leave him blinking mutely in its aftermath.

"I see." The Sentinel's voice floated in the memory-laden air of the ancient rotunda, echoing off walls groaning beneath the weight of the Temple's massive edifice.

"I can explain," Siri tried, her chin up and her shoulders braced.

The senior Jedi made her a gallant bow. "I assure you, my dear young lady, your enticements require no explication. - Though I daresay Master Gallia will desire some accounting of your actions and whereabouts this evening. Or should I say morning?"

His tone left no room for mistake: if Adi Gallia did not receive a thorough confession within the hour, she would later receive a scathing indictment via some third party. Siri's chest rose and fell once, twice, and then she bowed, accepting her dishonorable dismissal with as much grace as she could muster. She swiftly collected her cloak and cast one last longing and apologetic glance at her companion before disappearing through the far entrance, ascending back toward the present and the Temple's inhabited levels.

Yan Dooku strode casually across the patterned floor, his polished boots slapping gently upon ancient inset tile-stones. Obi-Wan faced him squarely, offering no hasty defense nor guilty excuse. He would not lie – not to her, not to the Force. Not to Dooku, either.

The older man seemed to appreciate this honesty – though a trenchant humor edged his next command. His thin mouth twitched. "Stand down, Padawan."

His apprentice frowned quizzically, unsure what more he could do to project _non-hostilty—_and then the barbed words hit home and elicited a violent blush.

"Master, I –"

"Do you know," the Sentinel mused, turning a slow and deceptively mellow circle in place, his hands folded placidly behind his back, "I too once enjoyed wandering these hallowed levels – there is a synchrony between the archaic and the modern, one more easily grasped here where the Force is…. compressed by time."

Obi-Wan did not make reply, watching the older man prowl in a tight circuit then come to rest in front of him again.

"You would not be the first to choose such a place for youthful indiscretion," Dooku continued with a tight smile. "Nor would you be the first to have escaped such foolish entrapments before it is too late." He fixed his apprentice with a meaningful stare, dark eyes glittering. "You will thank me later," he decided, when no effusive protestation of gratitude met his words.

When the padawan still made no reply, Dooku's silver brows lifted. "You are uncharacteristically tongue-tied, my young friend. I do hope your lovely companion did not inflict any _permanent damage."_

"Siri is not to be blamed," the young Jedi asserted, agile wit jumping ahead to the man's agonizingly delayed point. "Our lapse in conduct was entirely my fault, and I will take full responsibility before the Council."

But Dooku only chuckled. "I do not think that will be necessary," he replied. "And doubtless you would also prefer to spare the charming object of your affection such… humiliation as that would entail? I thought as much. Let us take the more effective route and discuss this privately instead."

Simultaneously wary and relieved, Obi-Wan hesitated before taking a step forward at the Sentinel's unspoken behest. "Yes, Master."

Dooku led the way through the rotunda entrance and into the sagging catacombs adjacent, wending his way through the ancient warren as though intimately familiar with its secrets. They came upon a modern pressure lock door blocking off the Archive basement levels from this historical section, but passed it by. The elegant senior Jedi did not seem angry, or even particularly disturbed by the illicit tryst or its implications. He merely gestured for his padawan to follow behind him as he wandered one level upward and made a right hand turning into a hallway locked with a heavy Force-sealed blast door.

And there Obi-Wan balked. "I've been here before," he said.

"Indeed," Dooku murmured. "But I think you still have much to learn. Come."

* * *

"Tuber fruits, and make it quick, you stinking ragpile!" the ship's cook hollered at his new underling.

The newest crew member was a filthy middle aged human, but at least he could work fast and efficiently. That knucklehead Kreebo was constantly dropping things, spilling the stew. Cooky was glad the moron got his throat cut, personally. Not that anybody ever asked his opinion.

One of the other galley hands, Jallu, was on pot duty. He casually threw one at the newcomer's head, just to establish rank and pecking order. The heavy crock seemed to swerve in midair, making an impossible curve _around_ the stinky human, and slammed straight into the cook.

"Idiot!" Cooky spat at Jallu, the idiot, and fluttered away. He had other things to do, like check the mess boiling on the fusion cooktop. Day and half in hyperspace: five meals to provide. The last would be leftovers – hey, if anybody didn't like it they could take a quick dive into the garbage chute, see how that tasted, yeah.

Cooky sampled the first night's soup. _Cheewaga. _ The garbage chute might be better stuff after all, heh heh. He spat his mouthful back into the pot and hovered over to the pot washer's station. Jallu had abandoned post.

Oh, there he was - he had a knife out, went to help the new guy chop the tuberfruits. No need for help, though – the stinky human was fast, you had to give him that. Kept his mouth shut too, a good trait in a human. Things looked peaceful enough, what with all the teamwork and all. The cook made a few notes on his greasy datapad. They would need to pick up a few supplies on Uagga. Some more grog, definitely. Tempers ran foul around here without enough booze on hand. He glanced up again.

Which is when Jallu's knife accidentally on purpose made a chop that missed the tuber in his hand and would have taken off the human's skinny little fingers, had he not moved his hand away at the last split second.

"Careful," the ragpile said in a low voice. "You don't want to lose a hand."

Jallu sneered and leaned in closer to hiss in the newcomer's ear. "You'll be the one missing a hand, dunghead. I don't like you here in my kitchen."

"It's a temporary inconvenience," the stinky human assured him.

"I don't like _you,"_ Jallu growled.

"You would rather sit elsewhere," the Stranger said softly, making an odd gesture with his left hand.

But Old Jallu was too stupid to take the hint or whatever that was supposed to be. Jallu didn't have enough mind to change his mind, or to mind his manners, if you asked Cooky.

"I'd rather _slit your throat!"_ Jallu roared, lunging at the human with the keen-edged knife.

Faster than Cooky thought possible, the smelly ragpile human brought his own knife up, expertly parrying the thrust to his jugular and coming round in a tight sweeping spiral to neatly sever Jallu's hand at the wrist. The bleeding stump skittered over the clean decks and the long knife went clattering.

Jallu howled in agony and collapsed.

The Stranger just kept slicing tuber fruits, dead calm.

_Cheewaga, _Cooky thought. Captain's not gonna like that.

* * *

His lungs seemed to seize up the moment they crossed the arched portal into the ancient prison bloc.

"Master…"

Dooku paused. "Breathe, boy. It's nothing but an instinctive panic reaction. Control yourself."

"Yes, Master." Except that the universe was abruptly leached of color, of sound, of substantiality, fading to a hollow corpse of itself. The walls became an enclosing tomb, a trap closing in, crushing the very life out of existence, wringing the world dry and empty. Obi-Wan steadied his laboring respiration, but the crawling hand of dread still stroked down his spine. He _hated_ it here.

"It is unpleasant, certainly," Dooku admitted, leading the way deeper into the corridor hewn of solid thanatosine granite. The Force lessened, attenuated, and dissolved into nothing. The padawan's heart raged against his ribs in protest, screaming a silent denial.

They stepped together into the open and unused containing cell at the far end. Dooku sat upon the rude bench set in its far wall, and gestured for his apprentice to join him.

Obi-Wan drew both hands through his disheveled hair as he sank down beside the Sentinel, enclosed in stifling _void. _ He shivered, flesh crawling.

"A remarkable mineral," Dooku observed. "Very few natural substances have such properties- and it is perhaps fortunate that their uses are not well-known. In the ancient wars, a colloidal suspension of thanatosine was used as a toxin –"

"Yes, master, a Force suppressant," Obi-Wan interrupted. He _had_ read the Histories. He knew, theoretically, of the diverse and ingenious cruelties wrought by the Order's now extinct enemies. And from what he could taste of such torture here, he knew that simple death was far preferable to suffering such practices.

"Hm. You do not enjoy being here."

"_No."_

"Let us discuss this matter of _base passion,_ then," Dooku suggested, leaning back against the cold stone wall behind them, his relaxed posture and expression in no way betraying the acute discomfort he too must feel.

Obi-Wan would not be out-bluffed. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight.

The Sentinel reached sideways and grasped his apprentice's knee. Without the Force to reveal nuance and intention, the gesture was nothing but raw physical contact, a paternal touch like that of an alpha wolf lifting its pup by the scruff, a simple human interaction. It was… odd. Superficial, difficult to understand. The young Jedi blinked, swallowing carefully. He _hated_ it here, in this tabernacle of emptiness.

"It has been many, many years," Dooku went on, "since I have had to contend with the _imbalance_ of youth. You must suppose me a forgetful old man."

"No, Master." He would _never_ attribute such lack of subtlety to the revered Jedi master.

The silver haired man chuckled, a rich but muted sound texturing the echoing _silence_ in the frigid chamber. "Very politic. The lower natural impulses, Padawan, can easily supplant your more refined connection to the Force. Did you sense my approach when I , ah, stumbled upon your tender vignette? No, I thought not. Let that be sufficient evidence of what I am about to tell you. One such dalliance will do you little harm. Perhaps even a habitual foray into such animal pleasures would be innocuous, so long as its seductive influence extended only as far as the senses. But let your _heart_ become involved –"

Obi-Wan squirmed.

"-As I perceive it has, and you risk _everything._ If you wallow illicitly in _attachment, _ and the carnal expression of such, you will choke out the flower of the Force with the weed of emotion and appetite." At the mutinous expression on his protégé's face, he hurriedly continued. "Oh, I know they can flourish together in seeming harmony – for a while. But heed my words: in time, one will consume the other. Passion will dominate, and blossom into seed, and die away as the body ages. And then, then…. " he gestured expansively, "-your inner garden untended, lying fallow for want of Light, you will be left with _nothing."_

The Sentinel was a born orator.

"Yes, Master." His apprentice frowned deeply.

"You are talented. You are _destined," _Dooku persevered. "Do not waste such gifts upon a fleeting illusion. You do not see it now, but _love-_ as you term it in your private thoughts – is a prison. It is the walls of this very cell, that keep you from a truer and better communion."

The padawan tightened his arms' defensive knot, rubbing hands idly against his upper arms, goose-fleshed beneath his tunic sleeves. _Siri. Siri. _

The older man stood, and released a regretful sigh. "I had hoped it would not come to this – but I think a demonstration is in order."

Obi-Wan glanced up sharply, a dreadful suspicion forming in his stunned mind.

"You will remain here, and meditate – as best you can in such dismal surroundings – on the _consequences_ of such reckless disposition of your heart."

The young Jedi was on his feet that instant. "No! Master – "

Dooku's brows lowered, a thunderous line of authority. "You have already disobeyed my direct order _once._ Do not compound your malfeasance with further rebellion."

The walls of the cell constricted about him, suffocating. _Obedience, submission._ He managed a curt bow, belly twisting.

"I shall return at dawn, and we shall discuss what you have learned in the interim."

Dooku's long cloak coiled sinuously over the threshold as he departed, sealing the heavy panel behind him.

Obi-Wan sank slowly to his knees upon the rough flagstones, the Force utterly _absent, _his wildly throbbing heart buried alive in _nothingness._

_Oh, Siri._

* * *

Yan Dooku folded his dark cloak across the low console table by the apartment's door and studied the dejarik board intently, lips pursed in concentration. He remained motionless for a long minute and then reached out a hand only to retract it before the holopieces could respond.

"Hm." He cleared his throat pensively and pondered the present configuration of gladiators from another angle.

"Good heavens." He decided to pour himself a small glass of wine instead. He was far too cunning to fall into the trap laid for him… but he had to admit that its _existence_ gave him pause. He had very much underestimated the boy's potential for strategic treachery – and he had not been naïve in his initial generous estimation.

Apparently Qui-Gon _had_ instilled a few lessons quite adeptly – or perhaps this was just another manifestation of his padawan's own unlikely constellation of talents.

In either case, the game had just taken on a far more _serious_ aspect, inasmuch as the contest had thus transfigured from teaching exercise to subtle clash of will and intellect. He drained his cup and set the goblet down. Kenobi was just as much a _handful_ as Qui-Gon had ever been. And that was saying something.

His ruminations were abruptly ended by the door chime. Despite the obscenely late hour, he opened the portal, sensing the identity of his visitor before she stepped gracefully in to his private quarters, Tholothian headdress glinting softly in the dimmed illuminators.

Jedi Master Adi Gallia's azure gaze skimmed over Dooku's collection of artifacts and oddities, arrayed upon their inset shelves, before coming to rest upon the man himself. She smiled ruefully. "You know, of course, why I am here."

He waved his fellow Councilor onto a meditation cushion and settled opposite.

"My padawan has claimed all responsibility," Adi stated flatly.

"As has mine, naturally," the Sentinel observed, with an amused lift of his brow. "I have addressed the matter already, in private."

The Tholothian woman relaxed visibly. "That is good," she demurred. "In Padawan Tachi's case, there are extenuating circumstances – a matter of personal history- that make an official Council censure problematic. Master Yoda concurs."

Dooku was indifferent to his former mentor's contorted logic and imperious pronouncements, but he nodded politely. "Then we are in agreement as well."

Adi's head dipped in a regal nod. "Do you wish to arrange a chaperoned meeting? A guided meditation? We are scheduled to depart from the Temple again in," – she grimaced slightly –"fourteen standard hours."

"Let us dispense with such formalities," he suggested. "Since fate has already provided the best remedy."

Rising to take her leave, Adi paused and fixed him with a coolly assessing look, but did not venture to make further reply.

He ushered her back into the hushed corridor and returned to his sober contemplation of the holochess board, and the intriguing problem of _discipline _that it posed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Meditation was impossible.

How could one hope to derive insight, or even comfort, from the Force that was so brutally expurgated from this repulsive place? Measured breathing and calming exercises had some effect – at first. But the prolonged deprivation of… _life itself_ started to take an implacable toll.

Enclosed in cold stone, he had no sense of time, and very little of space. Isolated from the fabric of being that penetrated and bound the world together, he could feel not one of the other Jedi he knew rationally must still be inhabiting the Temple's upper reaches. He shone like a frantic young star, solitary in a boundless void.

And it was torment.

_There is no ignorance. There is no fear. There is no death. There is only the Force. Where the Light kindles, there dwells hope._

He did at least have his 'sabers. He laid the weapons across his knees, centering on the twin crystals embedded in their painstakingly crafted hilts. They seemed to faintly chime for him – but even this familiar resonance was muffled, like a sound heard underwater or through a thick occulting veil. Anxiety crept in a black miasma at the borders of his senses, filling in the missing places in the world's tapestry with the wild phantasms of overwrought nerves.

Firebeetles crawled in the shadows… until he looked directly at the place.

Blood seeped down the dank walls… until he turned, sharply, and saw nothing.

Zan Arbor's medical droid hovered just outside his peripheral vision… until, with a half-strangled snarl, he whirled about, 'sabers gripped in his shaking hands, to discover that the cell was empty of any presence but his own.

Release, release…. But there was no means of doing this. He was on his own here, shackled within the limits of his all too mortal and vulnerable flesh, stripped naked of his soul's very marrow. Reduced to such pitiable straits, not trusting his overactive imagination, knowing that sleep would never claim him here in this realm of blank delusion, he fell back upon his native defense against every hardship.

_Brooding_ unrepentantly upon all that had transpired, he retreated from harrowing circumstance into the more familiar realm of self-dissection and analytical condemnation. There was a strange comfort in rediscovering the time worn ruts of guilt and insecurity, the childhood tracks overgrown by better habits, abandoned to oblivion as a gentle hand had firmly guided him along more salutary paths.

But they were still there, he now discovered, beneath the obscuring layers of discipline and will. And they seemed to welcome the melancholic tread of his thoughts.

After all, who was he deceiving but himself? Devoid of the Force, he was nothing – not even a man except in name. A _normal_ child might by now have grown into his place in society and intellectuality – but he? He had devoted his every waking moment since infancy to the cultivation of something _extraneous _ to his basic nature, to the attainment of a goal so far above human striving that failure was inevitable, that there was _always_ "much still to learn." His accomplishments had all been in this ideal realm, this fragile architecture of Jedi virtues, while his personal self remained… stunted.

Needy. Grasping. Puling and whining for comfort like an infant - for Qui-Gon, for Tahl, for Siri, for all that they represented. Perhaps even for the connections severed on his behalf so long ago before he could consciously remember. What was that, if not greed and immaturity? He called his desire for Siri _love—_but what if it was nothing more than the pathetic stirrings of his ego? Of his animal, emotional, untutored self?

And look at you now, another part of his mind joined in. Consumed by thoughts of Siri – of the _charming object of your affection - _ and thereby incapable of touching the Force. Oh, it was easy to blame that on the thanatosine… but appearances could be deceiving. Perhaps this was a test, and he would be released later only to discover that a Jedi _pure of heart,_ unsullied by base impulse, would not feel the effects of such imprisonment, that the walls of this place were but a mirror of his inward state, a polished glass in which he might behold the mutilated caricature of his destiny, the wreck he had made of the Force's initial bold strokes, like good stone ruined by a poor sculptor.

And abandoned even by the one that had _sworn_ to see the work brought to conclusion. He had consoled himself, a year ago, with the notion that it had been his own choice to stay – but focus determines reality, and surely the excruciating crossroads would never have been reached had his focus been more perfect, less subject to frailty and doubt? He deserved to be formally repudiated before the Council; Qui-Gon's gentler means of separating from him was a mercy offered to a pathetic life form, one that the Jedi master knew would break in the face of a harsher dismissal. The illusion of choice softened the blow – but now, seeing through the ruse, he allowed the full shame and sorrow of rejection to overwhelm him.

After all, he no longer had the Force to buttress the crumbling edifice of his devotion.

Even as a tiny indefatigable part of him cried out that this was all untrue, that he must keep his face toward the Light – the eclipsed and extinguished Light – he bent forward and laid his forehead against the unforgiving stone, and poured out his festering heart in silence.

* * *

When the fatigue inducing double-shift in the ship's galley dragged to its anticlimactic end, Qui-Gon collapsed across the bunk assigned him in the crewmen's quarters – one, he was assured by a helpful shipmate, the idiot Kreebo had never really much employed, since had spent the greater part of his spare time drunk as a depressed Wookiee in various dim corners of the vessel.

Praying to the Force that the stained blankets and mattress coverings were not infested with bedmites, the Jedi master stretched out and closed his eyes, reaching into the universal currents for peace and restorative sleep.

Instead, he dreamed.

_He discovered the boy curled on the refresher floor, in the aftermath of a sick spell. The Force was disturbed, unsteady, a nauseating panoply of shadow and light. _

"_I'm Dark."_

_He slid down the wall and sat on the floor himself. "Why do you think that?"_

"_I'm to kill Syfo-Dyas. I will be his death. I am his death. I am death."_

_Qui Gon centered himself in the Light, anchored them both in its warmth, dispelled some of the ravenous night gathering in the corners and edges of the small room. "I know you see things that way. But I think, in this case, you should admit to error. Master Tahl would never believe such things of you."_

"_She doesn't know me. I crave vengeance. I'm no better than Xanatos. I'm going to Turn."_

_The Jedi master frowned over the conundrum huddled beside him. Light danced over the boy fondly, full of promise and hidden purpose. "Is that what you truly want?"_

"_No! But everything I've done has led to pain. I tried to learn, Master, I did! I wanted to be a peacekeeper, a Jedi … but it's all ended up going wrong. I don't understand."_

_That was a good sign, though. "Then I want you to meditate on this: what has been lacking in all your choices thus far? I think perhaps that when you discover that missing piece your path will not seem so shadowed anymore."_

"_My path leads straight into shadow," the twelve year old boy said, in a voice far too deep and weary for his years. He huddled against Qui-Gon then, hands buried in his robe, face hidden in the folds of his tunics, shoulders quivering as he succumbed to desolating grief. _

"_Don't Turn," he begged his apprentice, his future apprentice, his former apprentice. "Obi-Wan! Don't –"_

He jolted awake, to find himself soaked by cold water.

"Shut up, " his irritated assailant barked, slamming the empty canteen down upon the decks. "Keep it to yerself."

"My apologies."

He lay rigidly awake after that,seeking a connection that seemed to unravel into the cacophony of grunting snores and creaking hammocks about him, and fade into an irredeemable distance.

* * *

Dooku discovered the padawan curled on the cell floor in the aftermath of a sick spell. There was no Force here – but the tang of vomit in the air bespoke a disturbed and unsteady state of mind, one that oscillated nauseatingly between light and shadow but found no rest.

Ignoring the mess, he dropped to one knee and nudged his apprentice's shoulders. The lesson needed to be taught… but there was no call to be _uncivilized._

"Come now," he ordered. "I think that will be enough."

Kenobi dimly registered his presence and clambered to his feet, skin unnaturally pale against his dark tunic, pupils dilated slightly. He was shaking as with fever. "Master."

The Sentinel pursed his lips, rightly interpreting the younger man's obvious devastation as symptomatic of a deep, vital and unshakable connection to the Force. To deprive a Jedi of his birthright was to slowly kill him – or more rapidly drive him over the brink of insanity. Prisoners here had been reported to _dwindle_ and fade at an alarming rate. "I hope the point has been sufficiently demonstrated," Dooku said. "_This_ is what passion means for a Jedi. You would not wish this upon your lovely friend either, would you?"

At the very suggestion of subjecting Padawan Tachi to the same conditions, a flare of protective fury welled up in the padawan's eyes. His posture straightened into defiance. "Siri has done nothing to deserve –"

"I did not issue condemnation, merely a warning. I have noticed," the silver haired man added, "That you are altogether a faster learner when it is _others'_ well being that is at stake. I merely invite you to consider the repercussions for _both_ parties involved."

He was regarded with wary intelligence, a patient and supple caution, one worthy of a Makashi master duelist. The young Jedi's brows rose, sarcastically. "I am well acquainted with the difference between an ultimatum and an invitation."

Without the Force, the boy was also far less adept at shielding his vulnerabilities. He allowed a cold smile to grace his lips. "Then I _invite_ you to curb your impudent tongue, Padawan."

But it was no use. "I thought this was about curbing something entirely different?" Kenobi lashed out, attempting to bridge the dizzying gap of _nothing_, to close the abyss so unnaturally gaping between one mind and the next, even at the cost of hostility.

"Your bellicosity _invites_ a proportionate response," the Sentinel warned, amazed that his protégé still had the spirit left to rebel.

Now the insolent varlet folded his arms across his chest, sanguine and disdainful at once. "If you struggle with temptation, Master, perhaps you should stamp it out or douse the fire elsewhere – but do not pollute the halls of this Temple with such base passion."

Dooku's grey eyes narrowed, as one silver brow crept upward in a sharp line of disapproval. "Hm," he softly replied. "Since you have manifestly forgotten your proper place, perhaps it would be best if you remained in this one a while longer."

That had the young man's attention. The Sentinel circled about until he stood between his apprentice and the door. Without the Force, shut within this hellish box, the physical difference between them shrank to inconsequence. They were both slender, compact and wiry, lethally fast and well-trained. Kenobi was also fifty years younger.

But discipline held. Dooku gazed into furious blue pools for a long moment before stepping backward and shutting the door behind him with a grim expression. There were some lines which must be held at all cost; he would make it up to the boy later, when right order had been established. To _concede, _to succumb to sentiment, would only do further harm in the long run.

And Dooku was very much inclined to take the long view.

* * *

"Cheewaga! You can't go around cutting people's hands off on board my ship!" the Captain roared, rage causing him to rise off his chair like an unmoored parade balloon.

"Perhaps not," the tall man reasonably demurred, "But I also prefer not to have my throat slit."

The Toydarian sent a dark projectile hurtling into his anti-grav spittoon mounted on the opposite bulkhead. "One more altercation like that and I maroon you without pay on Uegga, got it?"

"You aren't paying me anyway," the Jedi master pointed out.

"Glad we're clear on that!" the captain barked. "Now get lost!"

Thus dismissed, the tall man wandered back to the galley, where the unfortunate Jallu had been replaced by a derelict spacer, a tattered and worn figure lackadaisically shelling mandrangea beans. Briefly Qui-Gon wondered why the freighter did not employ droid cookstaff for such menial tasks; even in the Jedi Temple, where the rule of simplicity was implemented so far as expedience allowed, droids performed a large portion of such repetitive and grinding tasks. The remainder of the work was, naturally, reserved for initiates and padawans in need of a lesson in humility.

As he sat down to join his new colleague, he again had that unsettling feeling that the Living Force was laughing at his expense.

"Very amusing," he grumbled.

"Hey." The spacer beside him initiated conversation by jostling his elbow. "You ever been out to Uegga before?"

Qui-Gon ransacked memory; he had in fact been in the sector several times – but he opted to answer with a question instead. "It's near Iego, isn't it?"

"Yeah." The ragged fellow snapped a mandrangea pod in two and squeezed out the succulent beans. "I met a guy once who says as there's Angels out on the moons. More like moonshine, if you ask me."

"You do not believe in the existence of Angels?"

Another pod snapped in half. "Eh…maybe at the spaceport hostelry, if you know what I mean." A wet chuckle. "People say a lot of stuff. I ain't never _seen_ an Angel, an' I've seen a whole lotta weird out there."

"Still. Many tales are grounded in reality; much that we consider superstition is but the distortion of truth."

"Maybe," his workmate grunted, thrusting his grimy hand into a sack and pulling out another pod.

"For instance, some people say that Jedi Knights can move objects with their minds, influence the thoughts of others, and perceive the future."

"Proves my point," the spacer grunted. "Jedi's nothin' but a political front. Republic propaganda. Out here you gotta go on common sense, or you'll get bamboozled. _Jedi_," he snorted. "I never seen one of them neither, and like I said, I seen a whole lotta weird."

"I'll bet you have," was the tall man's mild reply.

They finished the task in amicable silence.


	12. Chapter 12

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

The Council session that morning ran far later than anyone had anticipated; by the time various mission reports had been heard, affairs both internal and external to the Order settled satisfactorily, and Master Adi Gallia simultaneously welcomed back into the circle of her peers and sent on her way again with the customary benedictions, the hour was far past meridian.

But even after the meeting was officially adjourned, he found himself again delayed.

"A word with you, Master Dooku. If you please."

Windu, Mundi and Piell filed into the antechamber in a closely-conferring knot, leaving him sequestered in the circular chamber with the Order's revered Grand Master. "I am in some haste, Master," he grumbled.

Yoda only snorted sardonically. "Patience." His gimer stick clacked pertly against the inlaid floor as he slid down from his councilor's chair. "Your padawan. Spoke to me earlier Master Gallia did, concerning last night. My advice do you require?"

Affronted by the offer, Dooku led the way to the burnished lift doors. "I am more than capable of impressing the need for self-control upon a single headstrong adolescent."

As always, however, Yoda had him off-balance before they had even begun. "Eh? Succeed so spectacularly you did not in your own case."

The tall, silver haired man waved the lift doors closed with a vexed snap of his wrist. "I have learned much in fifty years."

The ancient troll refused to take the hint, though he mercifully refrained from pursuing the topic of Dooku's own youthful indiscretion. "Speak to your apprentice myself, I shall," he decided. "In quarters, is he?"

With a renewed flash of irritation, the Sentinel realized the question was purely rhetorical, a ploy to see whether he would evade the answer's uncomfortable implications.

But Yan Dooku was no coward, and had nothing for which to apologize. "Unfortunately, he is involved in a disciplinary exercise. If you will excuse my unbecoming haste, I need to release the boy now. His penance been far too long in duration already."

Beside him, the eldest of the living Jedi grasped his stick's haft with both clawed hands and muttered darkly to himself. Then - "Approve of your methods I do not," he huffed.

"Really?" One of Dooku's brows crept upward in challenge. "As I recall, you once did the same to me – a lesson for which I have ever after been grateful. Besides, the boy must learn sometime, and he is extraordinarily obstinate. And I _am_ his master."

Naturally, the ancient one brushed aside this reminder of right and prerogative like a pesky tisska gnat. "Hasten to end what will find its own conclusion in time, would you? Explore, sometimes, the young ones must; outgrow it they often do."

"Except when they do _not,"_ the Sentinel observed, bitterly.

"Punish your current apprentice for the transgressions of his predecessor, you do."

"They share the same fatal flaw." A humorless chuckle. "And, as you say, I did not _succeed so spectacularly _in curbing Qui-Gon's propensity to form deep-seated attachments. I will _not_ permit another young light to be dragged into the same sentimental morass in which he so willingly drowned himself. The ranks of the Lost are swollen enough already."

Yoda traced a tiny circle on the floor with his stick's blunt end. "Still seeking answers is Qui-Gon. Lost forever, he may not be."

Dooku folded his hands behind his back and straightened his spine. "And yet, he wanders for lack of better guidance earlier in life. I intend to do no such disservice to the last of his strays. Kenobi is _one_ project of Qui-Gon's that shall _not_ be abandoned half-finished upon the erratic roadside of his whim."

"Hhhmph," Yoda snorted in reply. "Wield pride like a blunt instrument, would you? Triumph you will not, in a contest of wills with your padawan. Foolish you are, Yan: seek to batter down impenetrable walls you do, when the front gate remains unlocked."

The Sentinel shifted testily, feeling abruptly eight years old again. "I do not follow your meaning."

"Show you, I shall. Extraordinarily obstinate you are, and _your master, _ I am."

Even Dooku did not dare naysay the ancient Jedi's last assertion. They reached the base of the south spire and filed out, an elegant shadow trailed by a gnarled stump, the Force flickering like summer lightning about them.

* * *

"Get offa my ship and stay off!" the Toydarian captain hollered. "I said no fighting and I meant it… and don't think you're getting any wages either! Go beg your way home, you smelly gundark!"

Qui-Gon gladly obeyed at least the first part of this injunction, swiftly disembarking from the freighter and slipping in among the crowds thronging the Uegga Republic outpost spaceport and trading center. The last unfortunate incident in the galley – one involving a threesome of belligerent and drunken crew members, a malfunctioning blaster, and two broken noses that would likely resemble Qui-Gon's own crooked specimen once they had healed – was none of his fault, though all of his doing.

"You overdid it," he chided himself, since his apprentice was not here to do the honors.

But what else was news? He took the first opportunity to stash his worn robe in a garbage receptacle leading to an incineration unit. The thing was flea-ridden, thanks to the ship's unsanitary accommodations, and he only hoped that the painful itching bites he now had to endure did not lead to tisska flu or some other vermin-spread disease.

A quick wash in the public 'fresher station also relieved his face and hair of some of Nal Hutta's slime and the clinging grease of Cooky's kitchens. Back in Republic space at last… barely. Uegga was close to the edge of unincorporated territory, and still within the disputed area where smuggling routes overlapped with regulated trade lanes. Thoroughly unprincipled behavior had been known to erupt here, Galactic government outpost or not.

First things first. The Republic port authority office was nearby. He found the officer in charge friendly and cooperative, and currently enjoying a hefty brunch which good manners obliged him to share with his unexpected Jedi visitor. Said Jedi visitor conveniently neglected to mention his current apostate status, particularly when the agreeable fellow hinted that he might have a vehicle for the honored Knight of the Order to employ on his doubtless urgent and important mission.

"'Course, it's just a garbage trawler," he apologized between mouthfuls. "All I got to spare. You'll need it out there by Iego – place is a graveyard… ast'roids n' wrecks an such….by the way, don't suppose I can inquire about the nature of your business?"

Qui-Gon refilled his plate and poured a third cup of tea for good measure. "I am afraid the mission details are classified. But I am deeply grateful for your assistance."

The man beamed. "My pleasure, my pleasure. By the way, folks like to talk a tall tale about the Angels out there… I doubt you Jedi believe in such fairy-tales."

The tall man raised a brow. "The _Ieng'lis?_ There are records of an indigenous people dwelling on the moons of the main gas giant. The name, of course, is slurred somewhat in Basic, and the description of the race varies with the imagination of the spacer in question… but I would not be surprised to find a few still in existence."

"Oh." The port officer adopted a grave and scholarly mien, nodding several times as though this tidbit interested him mightily. "Bring me back a feather for good luck, eh?" He grinned, dropping his hand-cloth upon his empty plate.

"There is no such thing as luck," Qui-Gon replied, making the man a deep bow and accepting the ignition coder for his new vessel with a grateful nod.

When he located the garbage trawler in question, sitting amid several pools of leaking fluids upon the docking pad's pocked deck, he briefly reconsidered the extent of his previous gratitude. But, as he ruefully reflected in the next moment, beggars could not be choosers. He opened the creaking ramp disappeared into the ship's hold, eager to be on his way to the legendary realm of the Angels.

* * *

After a compressed eternity in which there was _nothing,_ the sudden hiss of the cell door's pressure pistons sent his heart shying against his ribs like a caged beast rudely startled from slumber. Dooku's footfalls padded across the tiny chamber and halted, but Obi-Wan did not bother to turn around; he remained curled on his side upon the hard inset bunk, face to the unforgiving wall.

Calloused fingers brushed against the pulse point on his neck. Without the Force, he was as impervious to the Sentinel's curious probing as this subterranean stronghold was to the universal life energy. He relished the fact, though he was too exhausted even to wearily shrug away from the solicitous touch.

"I suggest you get up," the Jedi master ordered, curt authority ringing in his velvet tone.

This demand for the traditional mark of _respect_ sparked a feeble fire. "I suggest _you_ go away," his apprentice returned, sick to the bone and past caring about consequences. "…Since that is the inevitable outcome of any exchange between us, _Master."_

The soft hiss of Dooku's indrawn breath was accented by an alarming snap of wood on stone, a sharp and all-too-familiar punctuation mark of displeasure.

Obi-Wan jolted upright and slewed round, wide-eyed. "Master Yoda! I did not know that you were –"

"Faster than thought, your tongue flies," the ancient Jedi chuffed. "And faster than wisdom, fly your thoughts." The gimer stick came up, pointing imperiously at the padawan's face. "Silent, you will be, and listen instead."

Castigated, the young Jedi dipped his head, not daring even to venture the obligatory _yes, Master. _ Dooku stepped back a smug pace, leaning against the far wall with arms folded across his chest.

"Hundreds of years have I trained Jedi," Master Yoda commenced his lecture, tapping in a tightly meandering pattern, bare toenails scraping the flagstones in a weird counterpoint to his cane's rhythm. "Always in motion is the future, always changing are present circumstances, but this: never changes, does it. A universal manifestation of the Force's polarity is –"

"Master, I do not require a reiteration of 'The Birds and the Bezzils' talk, nor do I -"

Yoda's stick caught him squarely across both shins, instantly transmuting the remainder of his peevish objection into a barely strangled yelp.

"_Silent,_ you will be! Listen well the first time, perhaps you did _not, _Obi-Wan." When he was certain of his captive audience's full attention, the implacable tiny master resumed his grumbling exposition. "Sex, a natural part of life is," he went on, ignoring the pained wince this bald-faced declaration wrung out of both his fastidiously civilized auditors. "A reflection of the great balance, of giving and receiving, compassion and authority, extinction and birth, Living and Unifying Force. Like the sun reflected in still water can this be : beautiful or distorted, depending on the purity of the medium. For many sentients, a participation in the universal Life this is."

A surreptitious glance at Dooku's carefully composed visage told the man's apprentice that perhaps the Sentinel, too, had not paid full attention the first time he heard this timeworn lecture – either that, or Master Yoda's rendition was one peculiar to himself, a variation on the theme not readily available in standard initiate teaching texts.

A loud bang of the stick against the floor, perilously close to his left boot, brought the padawan's wandering attention back to the point. Yoda's pointed ears perked expressively as he wagged a clawed digit beneath the young Jedi's nose. "But, for a _Jedi… _such is to exchange a mere reflection for the reality, to prefer image to original. Able to commune with the Force itself you are, if deep in wisdom you grow and unfailing is your intent. Settle not for less, should you. The gift is rare, both privilege and duty. Set aside the lesser in favor of the greater – for your own sake, yes, and for those you are born to serve."

The ancient master paused, stooping heavily over his gnarled cane, his wispy white crown standing in bedraggled tufts about his crenellated skull. "Love her, do you?" he abruptly demanded.

Obi-Wan risked an upward glance at Dooku, and then hesitantly returned his gaze to Yoda. Come what may, he would not lie. Not about this.

"Speak you may."

"I do, Master."

The Grand Master wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips, but his limpid green-gold eyes held no censure. "Siri Tachi also walks upon the Jedi path," he said, the words gravelly and grave. "The same gift and destiny does she share, your sister in the Force. If truly you love her, then love her you will not."

Obi-Wan's brows quirked upward in patent confusion.

"Offer her a pallid reflection of her true potential, would you? Limit and chain her, hold her back from her highest attainment, hm?"

An audible swallow. "No, Master, of course not. I want Siri to – I only wish for her good."

"Jedi is she." Yoda leaned forward, earnest and uncompromising. "Jedi are you. Choose _compassion,_ Obi-Wan, not _eros._ Love her you may. But as a Jedi loves."

The young man gently slid to one knee, imploring. "My heart will break."

"Change the precepts for you, the Council will not. Hold you to a lesser standard, _I_ will not." The ancient teacher's tone softened slightly. "Meditate on this, you will, when able to touch the Force again you are. But for now, to leave this place you wish, hm?"

The padawan heaved in a deep breath. "Yes…. yes, Master. Please."

"Come. Both of you." The Grand Master led the way out, his tattered robe dragging in the fine layer of grey dust upon the granite floor.

Relief flooding hot in his viscera, Obi-Wan barely registered Dooku's supporting arms as he clambered awkwardly to his feet and stumbled feverishly out the cell door and down the passageway in Yoda's wake.

"Told you, I did," the tiny master seemed to harrumph from a very great distance. "Front gate."

Dooku's reply to this utterly enigmatic statement also echoed from a vastly remote place. "I am humbled, my master… Easy, Padawan."

This as they reached the end of the thanatosine section, and the stairwell leading to the Temple's higher levels. Obi-Wan tripped upon he first step, then shook his head, fighting overwhelming vertigo as the Force was restored to its throne, as precious Light flooded inward, a dam imploding, an excruciating influx of depth, of substance, of unity and meaning.

"Master!" Dooku barked, taking his apprentice's full weight.

"Master," Obi-Wan whimpered. _…Qui-Gon!_

"Peace, young one." Yoda's voice floated out of the roaring Force, the rising storm.

The padawan heard himself moan, felt the Sentinel's grip about his shoulders tighten, felt the dazzling, luminous world spin wildly and tilt beneath him, sending him plunging over its scintillating abyss into a white and blinding totality - and then welcome oblivion.


	13. Chapter 13

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

He woke in his own quarters, with a headache fit to burst his skull.

"Blast." Having thus practiced his elocution skills between gritted teeth, he cautiously rose and tottered into the 'fresher and then into the dimmed common room, vaguely in search of water.

He found Ben To Li there instead.

"Force help us," the healer remarked, looking up from his serene contemplation of one of Dooku's actual vellum _books. "_It lives."

"Very funny, Master Li." He found some water, and thirstily gulped it down, and then some more, and then it occurred to him that things were somewhat out of place. "What are you doing here, Master?"

The healer rose, casually tossing the ancient artifact upon the low ebony table in the room's center. "Keeping an eye on you."

Obi-Wan frowned, trying to rub some of the ache from his eyes with the base of his palms and then raking fingers through his disorderly tangle of hair. "Master Dooku would have a conniption if he saw you throw that book."

"Pshaw. It's full of exquisite bantha chisszk anyway. Worthless. Sit down here, let me have a look at you."

The padawan sank obediently down upon the nearest meditation cushion, levitating Dooku's precious book back onto its assigned shelf.

"That answers one of my questions," Ben To observed, with a small grunt of satisfaction. "How do you feel?"

"Horrid, thank you for asking."

"Polite as ever," the healer grumbled. "You had me worried, you ungrateful whelp. Force deprivation is a hairy buisness - not common, thank the stars, but problematic enough. Individuals respond very differently to its sudden reversal - I've seen shock, seizures, a coma, delirium, nausea, temporary paralysis, visions, and then we have you: swooning dead away like a fair damsel and then sleeping like a baby for hours."

Obi-Wan folded his arms, favoring the healer with a fulminating glare.

"I'm bound to reserve your privacy as a patient of course, but need I ask _how_ you found yourself in such dire straits?"

"No, Master, I'm sure you need not." It was between Dooku and himself. There was no call to make a _fuss._

Ben To Li's bristling eyebrows shot upward. "Oh ho, I've been put in _my_ place," he drawled. "While I'm busy irritating you, I may as well ask after your general well-being. According to our database, you've dropped three kilos in the last year and the blood sample I just took while you were conveniently out of commission is showing all manner of stress indicators. Not to mention the _surliness_ bleeding off your Force signature."

"Don't worry, Master. If I drop in my tracks, you'll be sure to have first rights to the kill."

The healer seemed to take the caustic hint. He stroked his beard pensively for a moment, then sighed in resignation. "Very well. Let's just be sure your skills are as sharp as that tongue of yours,shall we? You were able to manipulate physical objects easily. What about mental contact? Let's see. I'm projecting an image through the Force… tell me what you perceive."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. Playing younglings' games with the Temple's senior healer was not high on his agenda at the moment, but he grudgingly cooperated. "A book… a plant, that dreadful sarlaac thing in the gardens - that's not _funny_, Master….a speeder… a medical thing, I don't know what the blazes that is, try something else… a saber… Bant… you, younger and more dashing than you truly are….me… a –what is _that?"_

"A nerfwhip."

The padawan raised one brow. "You are oath-bound to do no harm, Master Li."

"Fortunately for your impudent hide, you smart-mouthed young _brat_."

The word stung like a nerfwhip. Obi-Wan's jaw clenched.

"Oh…. Forgive me, young one." The healer softened instantly, another sigh of deep concern escaping him as he stroked his short pointed beard again. "Your Force connection seems perfectly fine – no lasting damage. May I at least help you with the migraine?"

A nod.

When Ben To Li had finished his ministrations and taken his quiet leave, Obi-Wan sat in the darkened apartment, relieved of pain but not of the inexplicable weight upon his chest.

And then his private commlink chimed.

"Kenobi."

A hiss on the other end of the link, and then –"It is me. Kar'Thon. Ogg is back, and picking up jobbers. I will take contract."

"Good. Don't forget the tracking beacon."

"Sssstupid I am not, Jedi. Unlike you."

"Just play your part. Your debt is close to being repaid."

"Kriff you, kubuku vetch-spawn. I will do it."

"Fine. Kenobi out."

Galvanized, he went to find a fresh tunic and to hunt down Dooku, resentment forgotten in light of the call to action. At last, at long last, they were making progress.

* * *

The Iego system was an unmitigated mess.

Besides the several rings of ancient asteroid debris rotating about the dull orange star, the solitary planet – a gas giant looming in the garbage trawler's viewport like an enormous lopsided egg, half eclipsed by shadow and half blazing with smeared color – was surrounded by an extensive labyrinth of flotsam and comet debris, a junkyard both natural and artificial. The planet itself was huge enough to nearly rival the star as a gravitational field – half the shapeless objects spinning in loose orbits about it might once have been other moons, or celestial bodies pulled out of their own orbits. The gigantic spiral of particles and swirling gases spun out in concentric rings many times the diameter of the actual world. And hidden among those rings, like islands in a sea of castoffs, were the surviving moons, a cluster of lucky satellites sheltered and camouflaged in the staggering array of …junk.

Qui-Gon Jinn breathed out, uncomfortable with the sheer _disorder_ represented by the system. A cosmic phenomenon on the brink of imbalance, of collapse, it suggested dark meanings to his intuition, a symbolic and ominous panoply of images that would certainly have given a Jedi more attuned to the Unifying Force a _very_ bad feeling.

He set his jaw and focused on piloting his ungainly borrowed craft through the dizzying maze of debris. His ship was well shielded, and built of sturdy triple reinforced tritanium; the few particles and stray rocks that bounced off the hull hardly made an impression, and did nothing to knock him off trajectory. The staid drives pushed him along at a slow but sure pace, picking a winding path among the erratically drifting and tumbling chunks of mineral, of ice, of warped durasteel and long-dead circuitry.

He thought back over all the history he had ever read, trying to remember which outlying principalities had clashed here before Republic rule. Vaguely, he seemed to recall something about the Fourth Teth Dynasty launching an aggressive colonization effort in this sector, provoking the devastating War of the Angels…. Where had he read that?

Or had that been read aloud to him, with great enthusiasm, by a youthful tactician intent on proving some abstruse point during an idle debate? He could not pinpoint the memory – but he had little opportunity to reflect upon it, for the task of navigating through the moving veils was all –absorbing. He gripped the yoke tightly and dodged and wove his way onward, making steadily or the furthest and smallest of the Iegan moons, the crystal-white orb know as Iembo.

* * *

He found the Sentinel in the Archives main stacks.

"Master."

Dooku grasped him above the elbow, a faintly possessive - if not quite affectionate- gesture. "Ah, there you are." Keen eyes swept over the padawan, searching beneath the surface as well. The lines upon Dooku's craggy face softened slightly. "You are recovered."

It was a statement, not a query; Obi-Wan caught perhaps a glimmer of relief beneath the even tones. "Yes, Master."

"I should like to avoid another such… incident… in the future," the older man said, with a small rueful curling of the lips.

Understanding intuitively that this was as close to an apology as Dooku would ever come, Obi-Wan dipped his head. To _forgive_ was absolutely a Jedi virtue. On the other hand, he was not a full-ranking Jedi yet, was he? "Avoidance is the better part of virtue," he quipped, neatly avoiding the topic of repentance and absolution.

The Sentinel acknowledged the strategic move with his own nod. And then moved on, fluid as quicksilver. "I sense you have come to relay some news."

They walked down the glimmering aisle side by side, a pair of dark-swathed figures limned in hollow blue. "Kar'Thon has contacted me. He's taking a contract offered by Ogg, whom I think is an exchange agent for Syfo-Dyas. He has agreed to plant a tracking beacon on the ship leaving Coruscant. We may have a possible location soon."

They reached the junction of their row with the soaring main aisle. The Archives roof was aglow with captured light, rafters and cross supports aflame in gold and white, dust motes circling lazily below the filter vents. Shafts of radiance pooled at their feet. "Good," Dooku replied, a feral smile tightening his mouth, the fine lines around his glittering eyes. "Very good."

"Yes, Master. And we will be ready to depart…?"

"Ah, yes." Side by side they now exited, mutual excitement lengthening their matched stride. Focus directed outward again, toward their mutual goal, a lethal harmony settled back into place: two minds honed to a tactical edge, two lean frames pacing the Temple's halls like matched colwars. The Force gathered in tight coils, severely controlled power condensing like heavy rainclouds about their electrically charged resolve. "We shall be making a journey to the Dantooine Enclave, to follow up on your researches… but that will leave us free to change our itinerary at will. I shall requisition a private vessel."

"Yes, Master. When do we leave?"

Dooku fingered his saber's distinctive curved hilt. "Not soon enough, but tomorrow after the Council session will have to suffice."

Obi-Wan nodded, gut taut with a nameless emotion, a bastard product of eagerness and dread, a strange and sickening pool of anticipation. _May the Force be with us, _ he whispered to himself – not understanding why the appeal sprang almost unbidden to his lips, but certain of its sincerity.

* * *

Iembo had once been covered in water.

Now, vast oceans had frozen over, glacial mountain ranges creeping down from the poles like consuming fingers, whole continents buried beneath the obliterating hand of vast ice plains. Along the higher latitudes, endless tundra stretched; near the equator there still stood a few distinct peaks of rock and earth, coldly jutting from the distant snow-laden surface, the last strongholds against an inevitable doom.

Qui-Gon skimmed along the tropical zone, running eth trawler's primitive active scanners. They picked up little useful information, telling him nothing he could not see with the naked eyes and the Force – but eventually, as he rounded the moon's curve past the terminator and into a starry night scarred by drifting clouds, the console picked up an anomalous energy reading, possibly sufficient to indicate a settlement.

He dropped lower, seeking the source of this disturbance. Below, cloaked in night, a ragged mountain range loomed – a series of peaks that must have stood among the clouds when the moon had been in its youth. Dimly, he caught the glint of lights – a constellation set atop one of the dark plateaus. He dropped altitude again, circling warily inward toward this beacon.

There, outlined in its own luminance, stood the delicate outlines of a vast fortress – half monastery, half castle, a thing built of impossible spires and dramatic arches, sloping roofs and ornamental towers suggesting a people of unrestrained aesthetic sensibilities. Windows and doors, gates and courtyards were illumined in a pale light – perhaps a primitive solar conversion system – while the smooth-worn stone of the building glowed slightly of its own accord, phosphorescent in his ship's running lights.

It was certainly a place of fantastic proportion and appearance, an architecture of illusion and defiance of gravity. He wondered how far back in Galactic history it dated – and whether it were inhabited by its original occupants or had been looted and claimed by pirates and brigands, as most the B'Omarri monasteries in the Rims had been.

Before he could settle the question in his own mind, his ship trembled, gave a violent, buck, and shuddered like a palsied bantha. A covey of alarms went off, and the yoke jerked beneath his hands. He cut power to the thrusters and switched to standby, doubling shields – this was a tractor beam or he was an untutored novice. The inexorable pull of some invisible force drew him downward, holding the trawler in a choking grip. Inside the cockpit, the Jedi master simply sat and breathed, centering himself in the Light and preparing for whatever lay ahead, _angelic_ or otherwise.

* * *

"When are you scheduled to depart?" Bant Eerin asked, huge silver eyes blinking up sorrowfully at him.

"After Council this morning… which means I am at loose ends and liable to find trouble unless I'm constructively occupied." Obi-Wan underlined his argument with a winning smile, one calculated to batter down the Mon Cal's defenses in one swift strike.

She sighed, placing webbed hands upon her hips. "So I'm to entertain you all morning, for the greater good of this Temple? And do you _really_ think you can _charm_ your way into whatever you want?"

He lifted one shoulder. "It's preferable to aggressive negotiations, isn't it?"

"Oh, Obi, what am I going to do with you?"

He tugged her along the passageway by one hand. "Let's swim. You're looking a bit dehydrated."

"Listen to me!" Bant made one last pathetic effort at protest. "I have a message for you. From Siri Tachi."

That had the intended effect. He stopped dead in his tracks, all attention.

"She came looking for you in the healer's ward," the Mon Cal explained. "She said you… disappeared in the Force, she thought you must be dreadfully injured… When you weren't there she was very upset. I don't understand what's going on, _Obi –" _ Bant fixed him with a penetrating stare beneath half-hooded eyes – "but she said to convey her deepest apologies for hurting you during the sparring match."

His face smoothed into a controlled neutrality. "She left last night," he said, dully.

"What did she mean by _hurting you_? Are you holding out on me?"

"No. It's fine. I'm fine. It's a private joke."

Bant's luminous orb-like eyes narrowed further. "You are a terrible liar, Obi-Wan Kenobi. The only person you are fooling is yourself. You know that, don't you?"

His mouth twisted in irritation. "Thank you, Master Eerin. Perhaps you should train as a soul healer; certainly your tactful and nurturing words would bring balm to the most aching heart."

Bant sighed, abruptly saddened. "Who's going to keep you in line when I'm gone?" she lamented.

This brought them both up short. "Gone?" His brows came together. "What do you –"

"I've just been promoted to Assistant Healer," she explained, coloring a duskier shade of salmon. "It's a great honor…"

"It is. You deserve it." Obi-Wan offered her a genuine smile this time, setting aside worry in favor of joy. The healers' equivalent of Senior Padawan rank, the title of Assistant bore with it both a pledge of faith in Bant's abilities and a greater burden of responsibility.

The Mon Cal girl squirmed, modestly. "I don't know about that… but I'm to do a six month internship in the Rims… and then I might study on Alderaan, at the University, with Master Paas T'Choore."

"Oh. So…"

"I don't know when I'll see you again, Obi."

They stood beneath the intersection of two arched concourses, a crossroads in the fourth level's labyrinthine sprawl, wordless.

"Miss you, I will," Bant murmured, at last, in accord with their childhood tradition of playfully imitating Master Yoda.

"Miss you also, will I," he replied, heaviness rooting him to the spot.

Bant stood on tiptoe and placed a featherlight Mon Cal kiss upon his cheek, a moist and salty salute.

He swallowed, acutely aware that he had no _possessions, _ nothing of himself to give her. "May the Force be with you, Bant. Always."

"And with you."

They parted ways then, each determined to preserve for the other one the beautiful illusion that _there is no emotion; there is peace._


	14. Chapter 14

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The glory and wonder of supralight travel tended to wear rather thin after the first two hours, especially onboard a claustrophobically small shuttle-craft. Jedi, who spent a good deal of their otherwise adventuresome and varied lives sequestered in the cramped confines of such vessels, naturally had a diverse arsenal of customary amusements and pastimes with which to ease the inevitable boredom. There was always meditation, or quiet study, or routine maintenance on the ship itself. Some masters or padawans preferred to use the time for a game of strategy or skill, something to hone the mind and perhaps instill a lesson or two in the Force's mysterious ways.

And then there were Yan Dooku and his current apprentice - who seemed, by a common natural proclivity for such pursuits, to habitually rely upon the pleasure of intricate philosophical debate to while away the long hours in hyperspace.

"A valid point," the sentinel observed, magnanimously. "However, your premise ceases to be valid in the case of moral corruption."

"Master, what moral corruption on the part of any politician – even the Supreme Chancellor, for the sake of argument, could justify a violent secession? Bad leadership does not dissolve the fundamental tenets of democratic rule, as such."

"I do not speak of bad leadership. What if, for instance, the governing body of the Republic were to alter its own constitution in such a manner that it embraced a practice or principle contrary to the nature of true liberty?"

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms. "You mean alter the constitution to permit… slavery, or something equivalent?"

Dooku waved an idle hand."For the sake of example. Slavery is not a likely scenario; what have we droids for, if not to satisfy the same economic demands that fuel slavery in the less privileged regions of the galaxy?"

His apprentice exhaled and nodded, admitting that this was true. _Labor _that could be bought and sold was an unfortunate foundation stone of the Republic's economic prosperity. The invention of droids had been a great blessing for sentients in this regard: only on far-flung planets where the cost of cybertronics made droids a luxury possession did slavery still flourish. He was no raving enthusiast for droids, himself – they were a convenience, it was true, and performed many menial and dangerous tasks that he would not wish upon any living being… but beneath the easy acceptance of this aspect of galactic culture there lurked a dark shadow. Droids were the metallic echoes of the slaves and underclasses that once had been, and still _could_ be.

But his mind was wandering off topic. "But even suppose such an alteration was made, it behooves those who believe in freedom to _fix _ the situation rather than to abandon their fundamental loyalties."

Dooku steepled his fingers and gazed at the blinking ceiling panels. "Ah, youth. You would go down with a burning ship, I fear."

The padawan's hackles rose. "What other alternative is there, Master? Abandoning one's post is…. is dishonorable!"

The Sentinel offered him a thin and sympathetic smile. "I felt the same at your age. But you will find that life is far more complicated than you suppose , and that a great many of the truths we cling to depend very greatly on one's point of view."

"Yes, Master." The argument was ended, for the time being. He checked the navcomp again, and then changed topics. "Do you think this manuscript in the Dantooine Enclave will truly prove illuminating? I don't see how it will help us locate the thief."

Again Dooku turned amused eyes upon him. "Oh, I doubt it will directly contribute at all. But many things that are inherently worthless can still be turned to profit as bargaining chips."

Obi-Wan frowned. "We cannot remove an historical document from the collection on Dantooine," he objected.

"Hm," Dooku answered. "We can do whatever is necessary to complete this mission. The rest of the Council and I have a ….tacit agreement."

His apprentice merely nodded once, a sober acknowledgment that the issue was out of his hands – and perhaps also an admission that he, too, would do _whatever necessary_ to see this affair through to its bitter conclusion.

The personal stakes were too high to admit of failure.

* * *

The garbage trawler kicked and bucked like a fractious young nerf colt rebelling against its wrangler – but in the end, the tractor beam proved too much for its failing stabilizers and wrestled it into submission upon a high landing pad atop one of the stronghold's architecturally fanciful towers. Running lights picked out the edge of the circular platform in eerie phosphors; the vessel vibrated as a magnetic docking moor fixed to its hull like a lamprey; not a soul was to be seen though the viewport or sensed in the Force.

Qui-Gon descended the rickety ramp warily, hand resting upon his 'saber's hilt.

A sultry breeze caught at his lank hair and tickled his nostrils, laden with the earthy incense of aromatic woodfires and some other unfamiliar sweetness. He stood at the summit of a white pinnacle, scanning the decks below his feet for sign of access hatch or opening, reaching out through the languid plenum to _feel_ the nature of this place's inhabitants, whether willing hosts or not.

Presently a flagstone slab scraped aside to reveal a broad square of darkness leading below. Out of this slowly widening aperture the head and shoulders of a dozen dwarfish figures emerged, their grotesque bodies and faces partially obscured by fanciful and definitely antique armor, their shambling gaits and inelegant grunts and snuffles proclaiming that these were _not_ the breathtaking Ieng'lis of spacers' legend. They tromped to a standstill some two meters from his knees, thrusting a bristly forest of short spears and crude mattocks upward at his comparatively towering form.

"Halt, intruder!" the captain of these gargoylish interlopers snarled at him, in a voice as rasping and rough-hewn as the white stone beneath their boots. "Who are you that has the audacity to trespass where only fools dare tread?"

The Jedi master's brows rose, complacently. "A fool, clearly."

This reply caught the diminutive troll off guard momentarily, but he swiftly reverted to protocol. "And what business brings you here to Iembo, oh Fool?"

Qui-Gon inclined his head politely. "I bring a gift for your …mistress." The Force guided his tongue, as it had so often his footsteps. "From the Old One of Nal Hutta."

The latter name manifestly meant nothing to the malformed soldiery, but at mention of their _mistress_ a palpable frisson ran through their squat ranks. "A gift for Her? A Token? We cannot present this Fool to her – he _stinks!"_

Their leader promptly latched onto this difficulty, recognizing a problem that fell within the bounds of his competency to set aright. "Aye, Fool. You _stink_ like a whoreson swine. What have you been doing?"

"It makes for a long tale," the tall man answered, tightly. Inured by force of necessity to his own scent, he was nonetheless painfully aware that he must by now reek abominably of swamp and bacci and grease and the indescribable filth and decay of the garbage trawler. And his garments were a sorry departure from acceptable Jedi uniform- frayed and stained and darkened with a year's worth of hard travel and very few laundering facilities. He must look the fit counterpart to his repulsive odor.

"You cannot have audience with Her until you've bathed," the guard informed him, pertly. "_Filthy livestock_ must not pollute the halls of the Ieng'lis."

_Pateince. Forbearance._ "Show me where I may divest myself of these garments and make myself presentable," he said, with the patience and forbearance of a true Master.

"This way," the stump of a warrior grunted, leading the way into the tower, his retinue of outlandish companions surrounding the tall Jedi like a nerf being led to slaughter. "Come along."

* * *

They set down upon the rolling Khoonda plains, lying eastward of the ancient Enclave buildings. Dantooine's flat grasslands opened up before the millennia-old structure, a swelling green ocean rolling in gentle waves towards the shore of its solitary island. The Enclave's main rotunda did not rise majestically skyward like the pyramid of the Temple on Coruscant, but its four solid buttresses, bracing the central hub like immovable cornerstones, echoed the soaring spires of its sister sanctuary.

Dooku and his padawan strolled along the crumbling and time-beaten road leading to the main eastern gates.

"The Force is… heavy here," Obi-Wan remarked, struggling to formulate the sense of refracted light, of ghostly shadow and luminance hanging over the Enclave buildings and the surrounding area like a mantle woven of memory and portent.

"This place has seen many a rise and fall," Dooku agreed. "And the Force remembers. But we shall encounter few, if any sentients here now – the Keeper, of course. And perhaps one or two other travelers or supplicants seeking refuge. If we meditate in the western courtyard, we may be able to pierce the veil of distance…. I should like to _see_ what our enemy is about."

"I am willing, Master." Under Dooku's tutelage, his natural talent for Unifying vision had flourished, tended like an exquisite greenhouse bloom under the Sentinel's expert care. Deep meditation as Dooku taught it was a world apart from communion with the Living Force, as Master Qui-Gon had always sought to instill in him. Not that incubating such visions was always a _pleasant_ experience. Sighing, he drew his cloak close about his shoulders despite the day's warmth and the glint of joyous sunshine upon the bleached tips of wild grass. He would do what he must, if it meant hunting down their foe.

"Excellent."

They were met at the doors by the Keeper, Master Perra Cephaalus, whose protuberant back-sweeping cranial ridge almost knocked against the lintel as he made them a deep obeisance.

"Master Dooku. It has been a long time. And…?"

The Sentinel held out a gracious hand as his apprentice bowed to the reptilian Jedi. "My Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

A pair of glazed slat-pupiled eyes swept over the younger human and then returned to the Councilor. "I will show you to the sublevels, if your research is urgent. Shall I inform the collective to prepare guest quarters for you?"

Dooku inclined his head. "We will remain one night. Thank you. My padawan will contribute to the shared work."

The Keeper again flicked bulging eyes over the apprentice Jedi. "Very good. As you know, Padawan, we live in strict community here, without droids or servants. All those who eat and rest also work. You may contribute for yourself and your master this evening, in the kitchens. Tool Raggi, who has washed the pots for seventeen standard years, has only days ago returned to the Force – and there is an unfortunate backlog in his work."

Obi-Wan nodded his understanding, noting with ironic detachment that the rule of _he who eats, works_ did admit of at least one loophole, inasmuch as a Master's share could still be shouldered by his learner – all in the name of humility and growth in wisdom, of course.

"This way," their serene host murmured, leading them deep into the central building and thence to the subterranean archives where some of the galaxy's most ancient artifacts and texts still resided.

* * *

Qui-Gon was left alone, eventually, in a small chamber buried deep within the maze of corridors and intersecting halls that constituted the Iemban mountain fortress. A pit occupied the center of the circular room, one into which a scant half-meter of scalding water had been poured by a foursome of the stunted minions who had escorted him here. There was no evidence of technological convenience at all, though he supposed the discreet hole set into a jutting ledge on one side might lead ultimately to a modern 'cinerator or sterilizer unit. The domed ceiling of this room was carved elaborately with scrollwork and an undulating floral motif, though the walls were bare of ornament. A single glowlamp hung pendant from the central rafter, casting glittering reflections upon the steam-crowned bath.

He had gratefully stripped away the grimy layers of his clothing and examined the primitive scrubbing brushes and hard cleansing block when another of the diminutive household staff blundered in, bearing a heap of gauzy silver-sheened cloth. "Here," this person grumbled. "We have nothing else that will fit your proportions. You will appear before Her barefoot as a supplicant. Leave the foot-coverings here and they will be cleaned."

The Jedi master nodded his thanks and understanding.

"Wash that feculent mane," the dwarf added on its way out, pointing a stubby finger at the tall man's unbound hair. "And your vermin-riddled hide."

There were various oils and perfumes laid out upon the bath-pit's edge. Stepping down into the blessedly hot pool of water, Qui-Gon decided that diplomacy demanded that he avail himself abundantly of every luxury here provided.

* * *

"Ah, here we are," Dooku breathed, withdrawing the vacuum-sealed canister from its marked slot.

Obi-Wan watched entranced as the Sentinel broke the seals and slid a long roll of aging parchment onto the slab table in the underground chamber's center. Ancient glowlamps overhead spilled a circle of luminance upon the pallid scroll, gently flattened and smoothed by the Jedi master's manicured hands.

"It's in B'tmoth'an."

"Yes," Dooku agreed, frowning over the document's hand-inked contents. One finger delicately traced along the first vertical column of text, bottom to top. "But this is assuredly the counterpart to the missing holocron. A _codekey, _ if you will."

"A safeguard in case the original teaching line was lost."

A grim nod. They both knew that many ancient holocrons had been fashioned to reveal their secrets only to the acolytes of their original makers, thus preserving the secrecy of Dark traditions through a Force-anointed lineage. "This scroll would enable _anyone…_ of sufficient talent, of course… to access that artifact. And I daresay the thief will soon find himself in want of this."

The padawan frowned. "But it is here, Master, and surely it is safe –"

"No," Dooku interrupted. "This is not a safe haven. The Enclave has been sacked and pillaged many a time in the past. This would better be kept on Coruscant, among the Temple Archives."

Now Obi-Wan shifted uneasily. "Master, you must be aware how sensitive relations are between the High Council and the community here. We should not do anything to disturb that balance."

The older man's thin lips curled into a tight smile. "What they do not know will not hurt them, Padawan."

His apprentice folded hands into opposite sleeves, eyes sliding sideways to the modern database record terminal set in the far wall. Removing an artifact without their fellow Jedi _knowing_ would be problematic. And unethical, a repressed but adamantly righteous part of him added.

But his misgivings were swiftly palliated, as Dooku deftly returned the aging piece of vellum to its protective tube and slotted it back into place. "A most productive afternoon," the older man remarked. "I believe we are expected to join the Community for evening meal and meditation – and then you have duties to attend."

"Yes, Master," his companion sighed.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

The Keeper had not been understating the case when he said that the late pot-washer Tool Raggi has left behind a _backlog _in his work.

Obi-Wan surveyed the grime-crusted hecatomb of filthy crockery and released a deep centering breath. There was nothing for it but to attack the problem with Jedi fortitude. He stripped to the waist, chucked his clean tunics into a safe nook, and tied a half-apron about his middle. Pots. Yes. _Any task is a meditation when undertaken with mindfulness._ The Enclave kitchens were, at least, gratifyingly modern. He located the pressure spray, the sterilizer light banks, the blast-dry panels. And the empty storage racks just beyond. It would seem that tonight's culinary ventures had exhausted the galley's supply of cooking vessels and implements. He had come – or been sent- just in time.

He seized the topmost of the weighty pans and heaved it into the nearest basin. The physical exertion was pleasant after a day spend cloistered in the archives, engaged in polite conversation with the Enclave's other residents during evening meal, and then wrapped in silent community meditation for forty minutes afterward. He had been almost glad to be released to this less _sedentary_ occupation, however humble its purpose.

It was not _sparring,_ per se – but he threw his back into it, craving any form of exercise. Deep lunges, quick movements, martial precision, a flashy and hyper-accurate employment of the pressure spray: he made of the quotidian task a _kata,_ gradually elaborating and embellishing the dance as he grew familiar with the routine, flipping the enormous crocks in mid-air, slamming them down, rolling them along the dry-panels, assaulting their every splotch and imperfection with the focused precision of a master-duelist, adding in a few totally extraneous flourishes and gymnastic maneuvers to make the exercise _flow,_ to give it _form…_ a bit of Ataru here, quite a lot of Jar'Kai, some Soresu artistry as he blasted the clinging detritus off the gleaming metal curves.

Steam rose in billows, scalding water droplets fell like rain, the floor was slicked but he did not lose balance or alter rhythm; he began to work up a healthy sweat; moisture condensed and trailed down his braid, clung damply to his trousers. The heat and motion and unholy clamor of his work filled the kitchens, set the Force to resounding with a low gong-note of enjoyment.

His concentration was broken by a low and throaty chuckle from somewhere behind him. He swiveled in place, spray hose still poised and ready in his hand, chest rising and falling in the heat of imaginary battle, the pile of unwashed pots behind him dwindling to a mere handful.

"Forgive me," Master Cephaalus chortled, rising from his position on hands and knees. A tattered scrub-cloth dropped from his hands as he clambered upward. "I meant to shield better, so as not to interrupt your… practice."

It was difficult to interpret a saurian's body language and facial expression, but the Force shimmered in amusement about the old Jedi. He folded his wide hands together before him and dipped his head. "A pleasure to watch a master swordsman at leisure."

Obi-Wan glanced down at the two saber hilts tucked securely beneath his apron's waistband,. But naturally this was not what the Enclave's Keeper meant. His gaze swept over the sopping floor, the puddles of water glinting under the bright industrial illuminators. "I – forgive me, Master. I've made a mess…. But it will be put aright before I leave."

"No, no," the old master assured his guest. "Scrubbing the floors falls to my lot. As highest authority of the Community here, the most humble task is mine."

The young Jedi nodded. Jedi philosophy had many embodiments, but there were certain distinguishing characteristics; this particular rule of inversion and balance did not strike him as unfamiliar. A faint smirk caught at his lips. "I should be flattered by my assignment then," he observed.

The Keeper nodded gravely. "Yan Dooku is a member of the High Council and a revered Master Sentinel. We show proper deference to his rank and reputation."

Unbidden, the image of his mentor tackling the pot-washer's job with Makashi elegance sprang into the padawan's mind. He clamped down on his overactive imagination, but too late: before self-control could expunge the delightful phantasm , he had visualized Dooku scowling deeply as he hacked off handles and prongs with swift _sun djem_ cuts, or impaled the gleaming bowls squarely, one after another, in a series of blinding _shiak_ strikes.

"Ah!" Cephaalus exclaimed, clapping his clawed hands together in delight. "So you _do_ laugh. I was growing concerned."

The padawan smothered his unbecoming mirth and bowed in apology. "Forgive me." He hoped that he had not inadvertently broadcast his private flight of fancy.

The Keeper brushed aside his contrite words, stepping closer. His blue and orange scaled hide shone faintly in the scintillating mist settling everywhere as the steam clouds precipitated. "May I?"

Obi-Wan lifted his hands palm-to-palm with the saurian Jedi, lowering his mental shields a polite fraction. The Keeper's slatted pupils dilated, contracted; heavy membranes lowered over the amber-colored orbs for a moment as the Force surged between them.

"Ah…," Parra Cephaalus murmured after a long moment. "You are a shuttered lantern, Padawan. What overshadows your Light?" His gleaming eyes traveled over the young man's face, and lit upon the tiny thread of Bereavement at his braid's terminus. "Ah… I am sorry. But – we must sometimes honor those we have lost by throwing off the shackles of grief."

"Grief is… inappropriate," Obi-Wan responded, tightly, letting his hands drop away.

The Keeper's long tongue flickered in, out. "Then why do you honor it with your heart's devotion?" he inquired. "A Jedi serves only the Force." So saying, he resumed his own back-breaking labor with a single burning look over one hunched shoulder.

The padawan swallowed, and returned quietly to his own allotted task.

* * *

The audience chamber was mantled in a musky shadow, beams of radiance falling like scourge marks upon the bare stone walls. Mingled dusk and bitter wood-fire ash wafted upon the slow-churning air; banks of lighted candles – waxen, not mere glow-rods – stood in silent tiered choir upon either side. His bare feet whispered against the broad pale flagstones as he traversed the length of this sepulture hall, approaching the raised dais at its far extremity with steady pace and unruffled mien.

He was a Knight and Master of the Order, not some peasant to be intimidated by theatrical trappings. At the base of the shallow steps he halted, waiting.

A small cohort of the same gnomish denizens that had first greeted him issued out of a side door and ascended the platform, arraying themselves in two straight lines to either side of the central throne. This detachment was clad in a rich livery, but bore no weapons. The fabric of their garments was much like his own, Qui-Gon noticed, and with a flash of intuition realized that this would be Iegan silk, spun by the billionfold caterpillars of the phlogista moth – a native species that had long since ceased to exist on this system outside its far less deadly domestic variant. Careful feeding of phosphus vitamin preparations to the grubs enhanced the silk's natural luminous qualities, and made it a sought-after luxury which the Ieng'lis nevertheless refused to trade or sell.

There was something to be said for _mystique,_ in the end.

The wait was protracted to a melodramatic degree. Qui-Gon raised a hand and tugged at the multitudinous folds of cloth slung over his shoulders and about his person. Having no exact idea how the traditional wrap was worn, he had settled for folding one length over his broad shoulders and arranging the remainder sarong-fashion, fastening the makeshift coverings with his own belt. His 'saber hung in its customary place – a Jedi adjusted to circumstance and to local custom, but the sacred emblem of his office remained. It was his very life, after all.

At long last, the smaller pair of doors on the left hand side parted, to admit another foursome of gargoyles – this time a company of females- and their Mistress.

The ancient Ieng'le ascended the stairs with a studied gravity and arranged her elegant limbs upon the throne with the grace of a Coreworld ballerina. Huge opalescent eyes blinked down upon her guest, the diaphanous flutter of her elaborate gowns and veils a woven nimbus about her lithe form. The Angels were a people of legendary physical beauty – an ethereal, some said _otherworldly_ appearance. Certainly the mistress of this citadel was exquisite to behold - but to one attuned to the Living Force, hers was not the melting beauty of youthful innocence, of hard-edged skill, of ageless wisdom, of irrepressible courage.

It was… if not specious, then seductively manifest. An outwardness without correlative substance.

The Angel laughed, clear chimes hanging upon the heavy air. "You are wise, Jedi. I see you do not come looking for the pomp and glory of past ages."

The tall man bowed. "I thank you for receiving me. Our Order has a long memory – but we seldom confuse historical narrative with present reality – nor myth with fact."

Two pale hands waved the escorting trolls away; they retired in a shuffling and murmuring knot, leaving the Jedi master alone with his hostess.

"Not many make it as far as our gates," the fair being murmured, her voice smooth as Iegan silk, barely brushing against the senses. "And fewer leave again. Our own Fallen sometimes return, or send spies and emissaries to appraise the condition of our ancient defenses. Her eyes narrowed, and wrath stirred in the Force's depths. "Do you come as a servant of such a Dark one?"

Qui-Gon withstood her scrutiny with implacable calm. "I come upon my own quest. And I bring you this, from the Old One of Nal Hutta." He withdrew the now limp and drooping lotus blossom, its vibrant hue leached to a bruised echo of its former beauty, and held it aloft upon an open palm. A tendril of the Force lifted it and sent it floating across the short distance to the Angel's extended fingers.

She held the flower to her attenuated nose. "The Old One still lives?"

He nodded. "He is hale."

The mistress turned the strange token between her long digits. "This blossom is his message to me: you are of the Light, though untethered, as this bloom is unmoored from its root and already doomed to expire." Her sleeves moved hypnotically as she dropped the lotus into her lap and folded her hands. "So tell me, anchorless lotus, who are you and what do you seek here?"

The Jedi inhaled deeply. "I am Qui-Gon Jinn, of the Jedi. And I seek the Shaman of the Whills. It is said that you can direct my steps to his feet."

The mistress of the Ieng'lis rose then, and descended to his level, seeming to glide bodiless down the shallow incline. She stood a hand-span taller than he, and looked down upon him in sober consideration. "The Whills were the last refuge of my people in time of the War. They harbored those of us who would not fight. They have been the staunch allies and councilors over these long and weary centuries. I would not betray such trust by sending a _warrior_ to sit at his feet. Your very nature offends them."

The tall man met her penetrating gaze unwaveringly. "I seek a wisdom only he remembers. We serve the same Force."

She turned and moved, fluid as a water-creature, toward the banks of candles in their wrought tiers. "How can you serve the same Force when one of you seeks communion while the other metes out destruction and dabbles in the affairs of politicians? You belong to two very different realms. The Shaman is well acquainted with your Order, Qui-Gon Jinn. And he will not mete out the secrets of immortality to those who cultivate _power_ ." She hesitated, back turned to him. "Especially not one who wanders _rootless."_

Qui-Gon watched in silence as she snuffed the flickering lights one by one, her thin fingers closing portentously over each eager flame and suffocating its light. His heart throbbed against his ribs, watching the extinction of possibilities, the damping of ambition, the quelling of desire.

He knelt. "I will submit myself to him as apprentice."

One candle guttered in the breeze as she turned again. "Do you know what this entails? You will be asked to renounce your very _self,_ Qui-Gon Jinn. Your history, your attachments, your memory, your purpose. The Order of Whills is set upon the high road while your Order languishes upon the broad way. If you wish to transcend death, you must first embrace it."

"I am ready."

The willowy Ieng'le studied him with wistful solemnity. "I must sound the depth of your integrity," she said, at last. "Only then, when I know you are worthy, will I send you to the Shaman."

"A test," the Jedi master clarified.

The Angel drew herself up, white and terrible. "A Trial."

* * *

Obi-Wan lay unsleeping, though the Dantooine night was long and his limbs heavy with lassitude. The Enclave had thoughtfully granted master and padawan adjacent, but separate, guest quarters – every member of the community consigned to a cell-like room built into the living rock foundations. He shifted upon the thin palette, seeking the Force's elusive tranquility – and then rolled upright, realizing that it was the Force itself niggling at the back of his mind, nudging him to uneasy wakefulness.

Something was not right.

Abandoning all pretense of repose, he slid into the darkened corridor and traced a cautious path upward to the main level, his presence tightly shielded as only that of a Shadow, or one in training, might achieve. The rotunda foyer was empty, the Force smoothly pulsing with the nocturnal quietude of the community's rest period. He paced around the perimeter and found a data terminal on the western side. It was a read-only access port, but that was all he needed: some peace of mind. Drawing his cloak under him and about his shoulders, he keyed the computer into active mode and entered his request.

And then entered it again.

Still the same response. He leaned back, a deep groove appearing between his brows. He reformulated his search parameters, and tried again. And again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. And yet he had easily located the archival file, even remotely from Coruscant. His arms folded themselves over his chest, and he scowled out through the dimmed transparisteel windows at the inner courtyard with its burbling fountain. How could such a thing _be?_

According to the Dantooine Enclave records, the B'Tmothi scroll had _ceased to exist,_ leaving not the slightest trace behind.

He shut down the data terminal, a cold chill crawling at his spine. It was _impossible_ to tamper with such triple Force-encoded crystal matrix data banks. The Temple Archives used the same sort. Once imprinted, records could never be obliterated.

He twisted the end of his long learner's braid between thumb and forefinger and then abruptly stood, seeking the steadying anchor of the Living Force – outside.

The courtyard was cool and the fountain placid, its burbling music a softly eroding influence, weaving down anxiety and suspicion like stones in the face of an eternal wind. All would be made clear in time. It did no good to fret, to ponder, to brood. The present moment. Focus on the present moment.

He opened himself, rather shyly, to the living present – not to the four thousand years of history here compacted in one memory-laden place, nor to the demands laid upon his heart and mind by the ominous duty, by the dread task ahead, but simply to the Force here in this place on this night. The fountain sang and whispered, the green things unfurled and breathed, the air coiled and pulsed. And he stood within them all, letting the soothing fingers of Light gently inexorably loosen and unbind some of the shackles about his innermost core. Half in a trance, he raised his hands and deliberately, slowly unwrapped the thread of Bereavement, turning the tiny black strand between calloused fingertips a moment before letting it drift downward into the fountain's basin. The pool clasped the tiny token to its limpid bosom and then swallowed it.

And he breathed deeply, resting in the refuge of his timeless source and destination.

When dawn eventually broke over the roof of the Enclave's central hub, he stirred and returned to the fractured battlefield of past and future.


	16. Chapter 16

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

The Enclave's graceful curve sheltered the west-facing meditation gardens from the rising sun, velveting the paths and groomed shrubbery in a soft gloaming half-light. Mating thranctills circled and dove above the Khoonda plains to the east, their graceful bodies silhouetted in fire against the bright young star. Insects chirped and buzzed, tiny drazzils skittered among the undergrowth, cunningly placed fountains and a meandering rivulet skipped and chuckled between the loosely connected grottos and courtyards. The Force coiled like heavy incense in each of the hallowed shrines along the way, nourished and sustained by Dantooine's thriving wilderness and the generations of Jedi who had trod the graveled paths smooth.

Dooku chose a hushed green cloister near the far end, one paved in concentric circles about a shallow reflecting basin. Here they knelt, drawing in breath and the Force in equal measure, slowly submerging themselves into the universal lifesource. The morning spread like a rising flood on all sides as they plunged deep, deep into the world's nexus, master and apprentice together. As always, Dooku led the way, blazing a trail through the Force's pulsing currents, his purpose honed to a saber's burning edge. Obi-Wan let himself be drawn in by the Sentinel's focus – and yet, on this morning, a part of him also soared free, unfettered and giddy with a indefinable nascence.

Even as they spiraled ever deeper into the contorted paths of the future, of unfolding conspiracy, of the myriad webs of possibility, he remained aloft in present radiance, the throbbing life of the planet seeping into his awareness like intoxicating drink, like the warmth of an ethereal sun. Somewhere, deep in the galaxy's center: a dark weaver tangling a treacherous skein, wrapping knots within knots, spinning illusion and deceit - his presence a vague certainty, a shadow of a shadow, the portent of things yet unrevealed. Here, in the now: the Force pouring endlessly over the edge of its infinite fountain, reshaping, renewing, rejoicing, resounding in soundless chorus.

_Attend to the Living Force, young padawan._

_I am, Master. At last._

It was a place long forgotten but suddenly rediscovered, an awakening so subtle that it left not a ripple in the broader currents yet so profound that his very marrow thrilled with it.

"Attend," Dooku warned, sensing his apprentice's divided focus.

"Yes, Master." Except here, the Force alone was master and guide, and even as he allowed his mind to slip deeper into the Sentinel's own questing trance, he stood aloof, saturated by the eternal morning, laughing with the shards of light upon the reflecting pool's surface, bottomless heaven mirrored in a delicate scrying glass.

_Syfo-Dyas. The enemy._

_I am his death. I am death._

And yet …_There is no death, _the swelling day proclaimed.

_I am death. There is no death. There is only the Force._

"Attend," Dooku growled, frustrated by their disharmony, by the counterweight of the younger man's unruly focus.

Deep in the Living moment, there was no death, his or any other's. And there was no destiny, no weight of debt and guilt, no ruthless fate to be fulfilled. No grief, no loss, no loneliness, no dark horizon. Only the Force.

And it was one, and it was many.

Part of that _many_ silvered the dancing light with gentle mirth. _You should attend, don't you think?_

"…Master Uvain?" _Why – how – are you here?_

_I am here because you are here._

_But…_

_Oh, sweetheart. Be strong. Keep your face to the Light. Do not forget._

"Padawan!" Dooku's sharp bark of exasperation shattered through his distraction, his inward focus splintering into a gasping realization, Light spilled and flooding back into the outward, into sensation, leaving only a glimmering meniscus at the bottom of his soul.

He opened his eyes, blinded by the serrated morning light glinting off the Enclave's roof. "I am sorry, Master."

Dooku's angular face was impassive, those his deep-set eyes burned with thwarted purpose. "You do not generally suffer from an attention deficit… at least in the absence of Padawan Tachi," the Sentinel observed trenchantly.

"Forgive me, Master. The Force is… different here." It was the same, it was unchanging, it was everything. It was beyond imagining.

The older man stood, _tsk_ing in his throat as he brushed miniscule flecks of dust off his trousers. "It is of little consequence. We have other matters to pursue. We shall express our gratitude to the Keeper and return to the ship after morning meal."

"Yes, Master." It was with some regret that he trailed in the senior Jedi's shadow, leaving the garden and its revelations behind. But theirs was a path of action and duty, as well as contemplation. And they still had work to do.

* * *

They descended in stately procession, wending a steady spiraling path deep into the mountain's bowels. The mistress of the Ieng'lis led the way, her train rasping featherlight against the rough hewn steps as she glided down the endless passage. Qui-Gon paced in her wake, followed by a double-line of her squat underlings, the latter making more racket as they stumped down the stairwell than a bevy of overenthusiastic demolition droids tackling a scrapped freighter.

As they penetrated deeper into the cold rock, the air chilled to a cutting edge and the natural phosphor glow of the native mineral dulled and hollowed; in the reflected light of the pale ingrained threads, the Angel's white flesh transformed, gradually losing its apparent radiance; soon she appeared ghostly and grey, delicate bones jutting beneath translucent flesh, the gaunt traces of skull and skeleton picked out in harsh highlight, the glimmer of her Iegan silk robes muted to a funerary pallor.

She was ancient, as burdened and memory-laden as the Old One, a creature weathered by centuries of loss, of strife. When they reached the bottommost step, she turned haggard eyes upon her guest. "Here you must go on alone. This is your Trial."

The Force was weighted here, quiescent and furled, waiting in ambush. Qui-Gon inhaled deeply, searching for an elusive center - the massive edifice of the mountainside, the fortress at its crown, the long history of this dying race compressing the moment into a nebulous fluidity, slippery and mutable. Dark and Light swirled, blending uneasily.

"What must I do?" he asked, not knowing whence the mistress derived her strange authority, nor what lay ahead.

A long, bony hand was thrust in the direction of the black aperture before them, a cave mouth wafting icy breath over their unshod feet, its secrets shrouded in impenetrable ink. "You will enter this place. One of those you find therein must die, if your quest is to move forward. Choose well and strike surely."

"Jedi do not kill in vain."

The lady of the Ieng'lis narrowed her eyes. "Nothing is done in vain within these chambers. Do this or turn back on your path. I will not send one unworthy to sit at the feet of the Shaman."

He grasped the 'saber hilt at his side and nodded once, tersely. He felt the vergence ahead, the terrible compression of the Force here, gathered into a silent vortex at the roots of the mountain. He would face whatever perils were here contained, and choose wisely. There was no other option but that of cowardice.

Immediately upon his entrance, the cold claimed him, gnawing through his gauzy raiment and shivering flesh straight to the bone. Shuddering, he lurched forward, numb toes scraping against hardened rock, unsmoothed surfaces. Sight failed him, wrapped as he was in smothering blackness, but his other senses and the murky Force guided him surely forward, pulling him to some inexorable center where shadow and radiance pooled together, wedded in unlikely alliance.

He moved, unable to resist the deepening trance, unwilling to turn back, to fail. The walls and air seemed to meld into one thing, until he was propelled through a yielding medium neither dark nor light, neither solid nor liquid, neither physical nor psychic.

And was ushered, dizzy, into a blank sanctuary, an opening and easing of the pressure all about him, a withdrawing of the Force's terrible presence, both sides releasing their crushing hold upon his heart and limbs. He fell forward, panting, a cold sweat chilled to frost upon his skin, pulse throbbing in his veins. His knee hit a sharp edge in the floor, and the pain shot up his thigh, real and dangerous. His 'saber crystal chimed – mewled, whined- a feeble protest against the overbearing fullness, the invisible ramparts on all sides.

He stood, waiting.

And there, out of the gloom, out of the hidden light, a man stepped.

"Feemor!" The cry of greeting, or pained recognition, of unbelieving welcome was wrung from his lips.

His first padawan looked up at him – the difference in age between them eroded to inconsequence by the passing decades, the difference in stature not – and smiled, a once-familiar radiance warming the Force, however briefly. Feemor was hearty and hale and laughing, the golden hair at his temples finally turned to silver, the lines about his eyes deeper than once they had been, furrows carved by decades of quiet laughter. Yes, the man was always laughing, though never impertinent, never cynical. Qui-Gon remembered.

He clasped his former student to his breast, laughing also. "It has been far too long." he chided, as though some paltry command of his own had been violated. "Why are you here, Feemor?"

The other Knight smiled enigmatically. "I am here because you are here, of course."

Qui-Gon sobered, nodding once. "Of course." The herald of things to come. The first vision, precursor to others more terrible.

Feemor grasped him about the upper arm. "Brother," he said, all earnestness now, the laughter fled from his warm eyes. "Choose wisely and strike surely. Those who follow after me… it will not be so easy."

Was this an invitation? Qui-Gon stared.

Feemor nodded, gentle as ever, hands folded before him. "This is the easiest path, Qui-Gon. Heed my words."

"No," the tall Jedi scoffed. "I will not strike you down." Never. He reached out again, trying vainly to close hands upon tabards, upon flesh- but Feemor disappeared into the surrounding night, into the womb of the potential, a faint and wistful chuckle echoing behind.

Qui-Gon sighed, and knelt, knowing even as he adopted the ingrained posture that meditation would be impossible here. Here, he was a thing tested, subject to the Force's whim. Consolation it would not grant, nor peace without its concomitant price.

_An illusion,_ he reminded himself. But was not the Force more real than sense? Were they not luminous beings far more than this gross matter? Which was truth and which illusion?

"Philosophy always made your head turn, didn't it, Master?" A cold voice, knifing through the void, slicing a ragged vent in the plenum, an open wound through which it slid like a narrow shiv's blade.

He did not open his eyes. "Xanatos. You are dead."

"One with the all-living Force," the younger man taunted. "Like _Tahl, _Master. She and I have more in common now. She never trusted me, you know. That _bitch."_

He was on his feet in the next instant, blade alight. His second padawan prowled about him, predatory, deriving perverse satisfaction from the spectacle of his mentor reduced to such unbecoming passion. The Dark crested and rose, howling and keening at the margins of awareness. The 'saber thrummed.

Qui-Gon deactivated the blade. _Illusion. Reflections of the ego, of fear, nothing more. _

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" Xanatos' arrogant chuckle resounded off some distant ceiling, within the tall man's aching bones. "Well? Are you going to strike me down? You didn't have the guts the first time… or the second time…or ever. Coward. Old man. You make a pretty picture, Qui-Gon. They'll put a bust of you among the memorials to the Lost… crechelings will tell tales of your folly and delusion."

"Then they will tell tales," the Jedi master replied, recovering his serenity with an effort.

The raven-haired man snorted, raised his own weapon, brandishing it in an aggressive salute. "The circle is complete," he snarled, falling into dueling stance.

"I will not strike you down this time, either."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and waited the blow… but none came. Xanatos faded into decayed memory. For a moment, before his phantasm was obliterated, it stood erect, a loosely knit jumble of bones held together by corroded tendons, strips of melting flesh hung like pennants off socket and joint… and then collapsed into a pool of nothingness, of fading deception, and was gone.

The tall man sank again to his knees, gathering what tatters of the Force he could, breathing a kindling spark into his failing body. It was deadly cold, the frigid walls of his outer prison no mere illusion. And he waited, trembling.

Time passed, and he fought the numbing hand of death, and he felt the tight coiling about him as the Force closed in again, merciless, probing his very depths. And then it parted, abruptly, an ethereal warmth brushing over his senses before the next –and dreaded – apparition could make its advent.

An exhalation, staccato with the muted rattle of chattering teeth, just beside him. He reached sideways, impulsively, and his fingers closed about solid flesh. Warm, Blood moving beneath icy skin, a pulse fluttering under his touch. His eyes snapped open.

He watched the uncoiling cloud of vapor as the younger Jedi exhaled again. "Obi-Wan."

He watched the furrow of concern stamp itself between his third padawan's brows. "What are we doing here, Master?"

He watched as long chestnut strands wafted gently in a cold updraft, frost settling among the unbound hairs. A pair of equally frost-bedecked brows rose as bright eyes skimmed over his shimmering and insufficient garb, a jest lurking at the corner of nearly-blue lips. The young man's snort of amusement issued forth as another puff of silvered cloud.

"Obi-Wan. You're here, too."

"Well." The voice deepened a trifle, signifying droll humor. "From a certain point of view."

"Where… where is your braid?" He looked again, and noticed the scruff faintly adorning the familiar pugnacious jawline.

"Master, you are mocking me. Shame."

Qui-Gon's hand tightened about his 'saber's hilt. "Are there… others… coming?" he asked, hoarsely. Let there be at least one other. If he must choose among those here…

Obi-Wan stood and jerked his head round.. "Blast it. Where in stars' name has he got to? I –"

"I'm here," a petulant squeak answered. Followed by a child.

Qui-Gon slowly found his feet, shaded his eyes with his hand. The boy was rimmed in blinding light, a nimbus of painful intensity. Who…?

"Master Qui-Gon sir!" the newcomer chirped, drawing nigh. His halo scintillated, pierced beneath lowered eyelids, stabbed into the senses.

And then it transformed to fire, to consuming black flame, licking about the child's features, wreathing him in a crown of ash and flame, consuming without destroying.

"Who is that?" the Jedi master inquired, helplessly.

Obi-Wan bowed his head. "Master, I …."

The flaming figure watched them, hesitant. The fires were banked, reverting to white actinic brightness again. "Master Qui-Gon? What's the matter?"

The tall man shook his head, vertigo clawing at his senses. The Force gathered round, smothering. Commanding. A choice must be made.

Obi-Wan's hand was on his sleeve now; he became aware of his fingers clenched about his weapon's hilt. "Not him, Master. He's…"

"He's dangerous, Padawan. And I must choose one."

The grip about his wrist tightened. "He's dangerous, but you must let him be. He's.. needed. Special. To the Force."

The child blazed wrathfully again, going up in immolating fire, mercuric and untrammeled – wild. Untamed. Dangerous.

Qui-Gon blinked furiously in the hot effluvia off this terrible figure. "Obi-Wan, I must choose one here."

His student looked up at him – why did they always look _up?-_ with knowing eyes, far too wise and burdened for their years. "Choose me, then," he said. "I am ready. And there are no others after us."

The child waited, watchful and grave, wreathed in lightless fire. "I need you , Master Qui-Gon sir!"

The emerald saber's blade thrummed sonorous in the stifling dark. _Choose wisely and strike well._

Obi-Wan knelt before him, head bowed in obedience, patiently waiting the blow. "Master. There is no try."

"No." The weapon expired. Qui-Gon closed his eyes, shut out the suffocating embrace of the Force, the dirge rolling in his blood. "No. I will not choose any of you." He turned the 'sabers' hilt inward, toward himself, poised below his ribcage, toward his laboring heart.

If this was illusion, he was woven of the same stuff. All was one in the Force.

The bright and blinding child cried out, convulsing in horror, in denial.

Obi-Wan looked up at him, too insightful and weary for his years… eyes glazing with terrible knowledge.

He breathed out, into the Force_. There is no death, my padawan._

And he thumbed the activation switch.


	17. Chapter 17

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

Obi-Wan staggered into the smooth wall and slid gracelessly to his knees, Dooku's hand closing hard about his elbow to break the fall.

"What is it?" the Sentinel demanded, grey eyes narrowing in concern.

His apprentice clutched at his chest, hand pressed hard over the dip just below his sternum. I – ah…" A few deep breaths, eyes closed. Color slowly returned to his face, and he lowered his shaking hand to rest upon his knees.

"Vision," Dooku succinctly concluded.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I don't know. It's… Qui-Gon. Something's happened."

The senior Jedi straightened, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "He is Lost, and no longer one to whom you should be so… bound." He extended a hand to haul the younger man to his feet, solicitous gaze sweeping head to foot and back again, lighting upon the loose end of Obi-Wan's braid.

"Ah. You've lost something, I see."

The padawan flicked the plait over his right shoulder. "It's time to be moving on," he responded, grimly.

Dooku's silver brows twitched infinitesimally. "Indeed." He held out a hand. "Let us depart, then. I take it you have not yet heard from Kar'Thon?"

"Not yet, Master." They passed beneath the Enclave's wide entry arch, the words of the Code engraved beneath their feet as they crossed over into glorious midday sun, striding evenly down the beaten pathway leading back across the Khoonda plains. "But I'll check the tracking beacon when we reach the ship. Perhaps there will be coordinates waiting. Kar'Thon won't risk his own neck to contact me unnecessarily."

The day was hot and bright. A warm wind picked up, caressing the seed-bearing stems of native grass, strewing the breeze with floating granules. And then, beneath the sultry morning wind, a colder draught, one felt impalpably, an undertow in the Force.

As one, the two Jedi halted.

"Do you feel that, Master?"

Dooku's thin mouth curved into a feral smile of anticipation. "How very obliging. I think our arrival here has garnered some attention."

Obi-Wan glanced sideways, even as his eyes swept over the featureless sea of grass. Their shuttle stood above the waving horizon like a gleaming island; there were of course no other signs of life, besides that riptide sensation in the Force, that sure _absence_ of something – of several _someones- _just over there. Their visitors were capable of a modicum of mental shielding – a disturbing fact.

The Sentinel breathed in through his nose. "I would recognize that stench anywhere," he murmured. "I believe we have discovered who the thieves are."

His padawan sucked in a sharp breath. "They've come to find the scroll, Master. We should warn the Keeper and –"

"No, no." Dooku strolled forward again, casually, his face composed in a polite mask. Obi-Wan followed suit, every nerve on edge. That whirlpool current strengthened, became a persistent tug at his mind. Oh yes, there were _many_ of them- whoever they were – just behind the ship. Surrounding it, in fact. Though invisible to the eye, they left a strange echo in the Force, the ghastly imprint of their psyches like the afterimage of a dark star, or a constellation of the same.

"But, Master-"

"The scroll is quite safe, " the silver haired Jedi assured him. He patted a thin cylinder attached to his belt, one Obi-Wan realized – with a suddenly sinking heart - had not been there previously. "Your scruples are admirable, but naïve," Dooku went on. "When the stakes are high enough, certain conventions _must_ be violated."

"They knew we would come for it," Obi-Wan concluded. "This is an ambush."

"A prudent strategy," the older man agreed. "Far easier to waylay us upon our exit than to attempt a breach of the Enclave's defenses. It is better fortified than you might suppose."

They stopped, a handful of meters from the ship's polished hull. Tall grass danced sinuously on all sides, an undulating blanket of gold spreading before them.

"There is no need to play coy," the Sentinel called.

The wavering curtain rustled and parted, yielding up eight slender figures in a wide ring about the Jedi's ship – every one of them attired in fantastic synth-leather partial armor, crowned in a mane of dyed crimson, masked by a pallid war-paint that accentuated cheekbones and eyes, and armed to the teeth with an exotic panoply of energy weapons – spears, bows, whips, knives.

Obi-Wan's brows rose at the garish costumery, but his initial derisive smile was wiped away by a backwash of icy malice. These women- for they were undoubtedly so, their gear fashioned to accentuate curves and dips without suggesting an iota of softness – were Dark, reeking of clannish pride and occult power. His hands gravitated toward his sabers' hilts.

The leader of this outlandish tribe stepped forward a single pace, throwing her wild plume of red hair over one stark white shoulder. "Stop where you are," she commanded, boldly brandishing her weapon.

"Master… who _are _these people?" Obi-Wan inquired, sotto voce.

Dooku smiled thinly. "Ah. I believe we have neglected the proper formalities," he said, extending a hand toward the ferocious knot of females. "Padawan, may I introduce the Night Sisters of Dathomir?"

His apprentice squinted balefully at the outlandish assembly before him. "Dark Force users," he growled.

The Sentinel shrugged. "Their pathetic little coven trifles in matters beyond their ken, yes."

This enfuriated their interlocutor. "Is this the best the Jedi have to send? An _old man_ and his _pet."_ Her eyes darkened with contempt.

Dooku waved the insult aside. "I think it is time the gossiping wives' circle disbanded. Surely you have better things to do?"

"Not until we accomplish what we came for. You have something that belongs to us, Jedi."

Dooku made her a gallant half-bow. "On the contrary, nothing I carry belongs to your sorority, Indeed, I might point out that you acquired the B'Tmothi holocron by theft."

The tall woman hissed between her perfect teeth. "Mother sent us to fetch home what belongs to us – the Brotherhood should have left their Index in our keeping, not buried it on a dying moon. The scroll is rightfully ours, too, you arrogant Jedi barve."

Dooku waved her vitriolic words aside. "If you will excuse us, my apprentice and I are eager to depart. Give your Mother my regards." He took a single pace forward, Obi-Wan at his side.

The eight female warriors gathered tightly behind their captain, effectively blocking their path to the ship's ramp. "The scroll, please." The speaker's black-lined eyes flashed and she pulled stained lips over her teeth. "We have orders to kill you if you do not cooperate."

Obi-Wan tensed, the Force gathering in electrical clouds about them.

Dooku chuckled paternalistically. "This is hardly ladylike behavior," he chided. "Stand aside."

A bristling knot of weapons was raised in threat. The Jedi dropped their dark cloaks to the ground, simultaneously, falling gracefully into matched opening stances, two jungle colwars wrapped in sleek black hides.

"Come, come," the Sentinel purred, grey eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "We don't want to make a mess of things." He hefted his own saber's hilt in one tendon-knotted hand. "Mother will not be pleased."

"Kill them both," the enraged Sister hissed.

Green and blue saber blades erupted from their hilts, spitting fierce lightning.

* * *

Blinding unity coalesced into here and there, self and other, disgorging things and places and awareness itself from the Force's depths, a rebirth of the world from some timeless profundity in which he had been languishing without protest for boundless ages.

There was firmness beneath his back, pressing uncomfortably against sore shoulder blades; there was a musky smell in his nostrils, the sweaty tang of some unfamiliar alien species; there were sounds – rasping syllables, the shuffling drag of booted feet, the melodious trickle of water poured into a basin. There were shapes and colors… bleeding into one another at first, but pooling into recognizable forms as he squinted against the striating smears of firelight just beyond.

Force, his head hurt.

This was not what he had expected. He sought for his voice, tracking it down in a forgotten corner and emitting a rusty groan, air pumped through bellows creaking with disuse. "I'm not dead," he guessed.

A gargoylish face appeared in his blurry field of vision. "It don't look that way, no."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, let the Force ebb and flow around him, releasing the pain into its soothing tidal pulse. He found his hand, stretched the cramping fingers, clumsily felt for the place upon his body where-

Nothing. No wound, cauterized or otherwise. No scar. He tried to sit up and failed.

"Not quite yet, now," another grunting voice commanded. "Mistress will come in good time. She wishes to speak with you, Fool."

The Jedi master inhaled, exhaled. "Where am I?"

"On Iembo. In the citadel of the Ieng'lis," a harsh voice answered. "You don't remember, Jedi?"

Recollection seeped back in, the fog about his mind precipitating into a faint dewfall, snatches of conversation, glittering droplets, images and sounds…"The cave," he mumbled. "The trial." But that was all. He tensed, mind scrabbling frantically for what came before… but there was nothing.

"Give him some vinta," one of the dwarfish beings snapped. "Clear his head."

"Do humans drink vinta? Mistress will be angry if we poison him."

Qui-Gon reached, half-blind, for the proffered cup and drew in the scent of its dark liquid. Fermented, certainly – vaguely floral, crisp. A cautious sip revealed a flavor like wine, only sweeter and more potent. He swallowed a generous mouthful, feeling the warmth slide down his throat and chest, into his belly, quickening the thrum of his blood. A few deep centering breaths, banish _pain,_ draw in strength…

He was laid out upon a palette in a small circular chamber, surrounded by an honor guard of the Mistress' diminutive servants. Clarity of purpose rushed back to him with the Force- and yet a vast blankness stretched behind. "How did I come here?" he asked. "Why am I alone?"

Should he not have a padawan by his side? Should he not be hearing a young voice… one that belonged to…

To whom? He scowled.

"You are indeed a Fool," one of the malformed servants scoffed. "Do you not recall your purpose in seeking out the Lady?"

Yes; he was here, seeking the Shaman of the Whills. This he must do above all else – it was the consummation of his every desire. He knew himself, his rank and oath, the road ahead…. But the past was shrouded, invisible to him as the distant future. Wrapped for the first time in the present moment, exclusively, absolutely, he was seized with vertigo.

But a Jedi did not swerve from his purpose.

"Where is the Lady of the Ieng'lis?" he demanded. The Trial was complete, his part played. And now he would understand its portent. He found his feet, wobbling slightly where he stood, and grimaced down at his tattered apparel. "Bring me my own clothing."

The stunted household staff hurried to obey his injunction, their initial contempt for him seemingly transformed into respect, an awe tinged by fear. His robes and tunics were returned to him, laundered and mended, his boots cleaned of crusting grime and polished until the deep scars upon the nerf-hide stood out like blemishes in fine marble. Atop the hastily assembled pile was a folded length of Iegan silk, a pale cloak fashioned to fit his tall frame.

He fastened it about his shoulders when he was done, twisting his hair into a single plait and clipping his 'saber in its place at his belt. The tiny guardsmen cowered before him.

"Why are you so fearful?" he inquired, dropping to one knee in an effort to render himself less intimidating.

The leader extended shaking hands in a placating gesture. "We mean no respect, Jedi. Few are those who enter the Deeps and return alive. Not even our mistress wields such power."

The tall man frowned, rising again as he caught the faint echo of footfalls in an adjoining passage. Power? He had been helpless, bereft of choice. There had been no _question_ of power; faced with certain death, he had embraced it as the ally of desperate circumstance, the last ray of hope for an ill-fated lineage. For... for whom? the specifics still eluded him, as though he had stepped into the naarative of his own life mid-story, without context. And though he had not lost his life, he knew with aching certainty that he had lost that part of it which defined him most surely. For a Jedi was a servant of the Light, but what was a man without his personal history?

A moment later the door opposite was filled with the Mistress and her liveried minions, all bearing long-handled torch-pikes. The glowing mineral lamps cast their grey features in sallow highlights, but lent the lady an ethereal glow, her former radiance restored, the lines and grooves smoothed from her features.

"Master Jedi," his entrancing host greeted him, inclining her head.

He returned the courtesy. "I have done as you wished. Will you now direct my steps to the shaman?" Perhaps the way back was the way forward. He had known this truth long, though he coudl not now say whence he had first learned it.

The Angel seemed to float into the small chamber, dismissing both companies of servants with a languid wave. She fixed her guest with a penetrating gaze. "I know, at least, that your quest is not motivated by _clinging_ fear; to grasp at endless life is the most obscene manifestation of greed possible. One who sought _power_ over death would not embrace it as you did."

His fingers slid along the hilt of his 'saber, the emblem of a Jedi's life.

"Nothing is as it seems within the place of testing," the mistress continued.

"Indeed," he murmured. It had seemed more than real to him – and perhaps it was, this so-called life but a gross material veil over the realm of spiritual verity.

" I think it strange that one who seeks immortality should so readily abandon his quest in order to preserve others," the graceful lady said, regarding him curiously. "You are a living contradiction of terms, Qui-Gon Jinn."

"Perhaps. But there is a saying: wisdom is often the bastard child of two contradictory truths." He wished now, desperately, that he could recall the faces of _those others_ of whom she spoke.. but his imagination pulled another blank, leaving him at a loss.

A bitter smile played over the Angel's pale face. 'Wisdom is a legacy easily squandered. I hope your heirs are worthy of such treasures, if you do ever attain to them."

"Then you will send me on to the Shaman?" His only landmark in a strange land - he _must_ reach that destination or drift forever, lost.

The Mistress hesitated, seeming to weigh his soul in a crucial balance, the counterweight of time and past deeds set against his present need. At last, she nodded. "You cannot remain here. I will send you to him, and he will judge you for himself."

He made a grateful obeisance.

"Come," the lady instructed. "If you feel yourself strong enough to leave us, your ship is prepared and waiting. We have set the coordinates for you; do not tamper with the flight path, or the navigation matrix will be erased, and you stranded without hope of return. I will send you thence to meet the Shaman, but I will not betray the Whills' secret."

I understand," he replied, falling into place behind her as she led the way out.


	18. Chapter 18

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

The Sisterhood fell upon its intended prey in a furor, whips lashing and scimitar energy blades hungrily seeking flesh and bone, eight streaming crimson tails skirling in the hot breeze off the plains. Encircled, the Jedi met the assault in a blaze of fluid light, 'sabers screaming a consonant defiance.

Dooku barked contemptuously at his foremost foes. "Surely you can do better!" A swift Makashi strike scored through a textured breastplate, sending one opponent flailing to the ground even as he ducked beneath a savage decapitating blow.

Howling with renewed anger, the others closed in, a pair of whip-bearing fiends circling about the padawan, their weapons' fiery tongues curling and snapping at his wrists, seeking to land a disarming strike, while another pair made concerted attack with staves. Obi-Wan snarled, lunging deeply to avoid the sizzling assault to his head and chest, sweeping his matched 'sabers out and around, the whips tangled with his shrieking blades as he rolled forward, jerking the handles from pale, clutching fists. He blocked a killing blow, crossing the two sapphire lines above his head, kicked another Sister's feet from under her, and caught another squarely in the ribs as she launched herself at him, a deadly knife whistling just past his ear.

She cursed him in three different languages as she thudded into the broken grasses, grasping at her side.

He sprang upright, parried another blow, bared his teeth and spun both blades in a blinding triple helix. _Defensive _ maneuvers would not avail him much in this situation.

Peripherally, he caught a glimpse of Dooku bearing down upon his two remaining foes, saw the seared and groaning forms of those that had been felled, felt the Sentinel's cold pleasure in _dominance, _in the flawless execution of his preferred combat style.

The Force surged and danced, tumultuous; he breathed it in, minutely loosening the shackles of control, watching the leering visages of the enrages sisters as they fell upon him, wrathful screams tearing from their throats as they threw themselves forward.

Arm thrust forward, palm out, he hurled them backward, against the ship's curved hull. A sickening double crack; he dropped and rolled, avoiding a skewering thrust of another's staff, leapt to his feet, locked the spitting energy pike with one saber and swept his _shoto_ blade downward, severing the long shaft in two. His boot heel connected with the woman's white jaw, sending her sprawling.

Dooku feinted, sidestepped an aggressive blow, and carved the Makashi mark of dishonor along the last Sister's torso, collarbone to groin. She collapsed in a yowling heap, her agony staining the Force with lurid fire.

Sentinel and apprentice ended back to back, weapons still thrumming a low note of warning. About them, the eight vanquished Nightsisters moaned and staggered upright, some kneeling, some standing with difficulty, two prone in the trampled grass.

Dooku lowered his pulsing blade, directing its burning tip to the earth at his feet. "Now," he sternly addressed them, "I am unaccustomed to parleying with contentious and ill-disciplined young girls. If you have a request to make, you will deliver it in a suitably respectful manner."

The leader, supported on either side by a staggering companion, slatted rage-darkened eyes at him. "You filthy _male_! Your kind are nothing but breeders and beasts of burden- we owe you no _respect!"_ Smoke still smoldered from the burning gash traced down her ruined armor and into tender flesh beneath. Her face was drawn in a mask of pain.

One of the Jedi master's brows rose. A flick if his wrist sent the threesome crashing to their knees; a brief struggle against the invisible fist holding them in place, and they succumbed to its inexorable power, bending double until they were all but prostrate before him.

Dooku paced in a circle about them, Obi-Wan maintaining a silent and shocked guard position, his eyes never leaving the angrily cowering remnant of the Sister's task force, his blades still humming hotly in the bright air, the scent of scorched grass and burned flash acrid in his nostrils, the aftermath of battle surging wildly in his veins.

"We shall accompany you back to Dathomir," the Sentinel informed his prisoners. "I should like a word with Mother Talzin."

"You will give us the scroll!" the dishonored captain hissed at him, vying fruitlessly to break his Force-hold.

A soft chuckle. "You are in no position to make demands, my dear." The emerald saber blade snapped back into its hilt as he ended his prowling circuit directly before her. "Indeed, you are in a position better suited to a supplicant." Her forehead hit the ground, and she cursed loudly.

Obi-Wan frowned, still keeping a wary eyes on the other women. Two had moved to tend their unconscious companions; the last one knelt, clutching broken ribs, a steady stream of vilification pouring forth from between her gritted teeth. Her amber eyes regarded him with undiluted hatred, the instinctive murderous desire of a wounded animal. He looked away, gut twisting.

"I shall take your leader with me on my ship," Dooku told the miserable sorority. "You will return to Dathomir aboard your own ship and inform Mother of our imminent arrival. I expect a more hospitable reception there." A brief glance over his shoulder as he released the two sisters flanking his hostage. "Padawan."

The remaining seven Dathomiri witches beat a cautious retreat as the young Jedi stepped forward, reluctantly securing the captive's wrists in binders. She was, he realized, no older than himself, a very young woman beneath the dramatic mask and the tight-fitting body armor. Perspiration carved rivulets in the white make-up, revealing a sallow complexion beneath. Her limbs shook with suppressed pain, and he was gentle as he pulled her to her feet.

"We have a med-kit on board," he told her, wincing as she labored to walk the short distance up the ramp. He remembered all too vividly the pain of the 'saber cut she now endured.

"Chob-sucking _prittz!_" the Sister spat, lurching unevenly toward the hatchway. "Get your filthy hands _off_ me!"

She jerked away and collapsed upon the decks, writhing like a serpent and sinking teeth into his wrist when he leaned down to lend assistance.

"Blast it!" He twisted free, and pinned her in a wrestling hold. "I'm trying to _help_ you!"

"You Jedi son of a vetch! Come closer and I'll chew your vaping _balls_ off!"

"There's no need to be rude!" He propelled her into the passenger cabin and thrust her into an acceleration couch, taking up position opposite, arms folded across his chest, fingers resting lightly upon the crenellated pommels of his 'sabers.

"Go kriff yourself," the prisoner snapped, heaving in pained breaths. Her crimson hair hung damply about her twisted face.

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together and made no reply. It was going to be a long flight.

"Now, now, children," Dooku's amused voice wafted back to them from the cockpit. "Do try to behave in a civilized fashion."

* * *

Qui-Gon sat before the ship's console, his hands familiarizing themselves with the helm controls. The pattern was unfamiliar; he could not recall how he had come into possession of this transport, but clearly it had not been long in his use. The vessel had no name, only a string of identification symbols and a Republic Civi-Corps ensignia upon its hull. He felt vaguely that he ought to be flying a _Jedi_ ship, and then wondered whether this mission had been clandestine in nature, and then shied away from further speculation when he was unable to summon a _single detail_ of the relevant Council briefing to mind.

And beneath all these disturbing reflections lurked the ever-present anxiety. Had he left someone behind, somewhere? There was an ache deep in his psyche that bespoke a soul-deep lacuna – and yet, he could not recall.

"Focus on the present moment, Jinn," he growled at himself. The Force danced and surged, responsive to his will, to his desire. He rose and, letting the autopilot carry out its mundane duty, made a brief exploration of the ship's aft regions.

This took only a few moments – he swiftly concluded that this had been a garbage trawler, though somebody had subjected it to a thorough scouring inside and out. The dwarves of Iembo, he suspected. They had been very keen on cleanliness, he knew that much. The hold was empty, the storage bins hollowed of both contents and lingering stench. Whatever reagents they had used to purge the ship, they had been remarkably powerful and effective.

He found himself at a loss, suspended between a voided past and the unknown future, enclosed in a thrumming cocoon of steel and circuitry, strung out between dimensions both spatial and spiritual. His only company here was the Force, and so he folded himself down upon his knees and sank into its illumining currents, reaching for a vaunted serenity he knew he had once possessed.

And the ship carried him onward through warped and twisting light, toward a place he had never been and for which he had as yet no name.

* * *

Obi-Wan quietly slipped into the cockpit and took up his station in the co-pilot's seat. ""She passed out," he laconically answered Dooku's inquiring gaze. "I tried to heal her, too – but there are wards around her mind… shielding I can't penetrate. And the wound is not mild," he added, forcibly expunging the note of accusation that threatened to creep into his voice.

The Sentinel regarded him soberly, looking down his long aristocratic nose with a faint aura of condescension. "I do believe your chivalric impulses may be misplaced in this instance – the Sisters are not fit subjects for your pity."

"She is wounded, Master." _And so young. Like Bant … or Siri… gone wrong. _ _Like Xanatos. Like…. me. If I made one false move._

"Mother Talzin will patch them all up, have no doubt," the senior Jedi sought to mollify him. "They look after their own."

But this was an intriguing scrap of information in its own right. "This Mother of theirs. You spoke of her earlier; is she their leader?"

Dooku's elegant hands played over the controls, making subtle and likely unnecessary adjustments to their course settings. "Teacher and authority figure. The Grand Master of their farcical _order, _ if you will. It seems you will be granted an opportunity to meet her – but beware. The Sisterhood does not look fondly upon men in general, Force-sensitives particularly. I expect some form of treachery."

"So we are entering openly into enemy territory," the padawan wryly remarked. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

But the Sentinel merely curled his lips in that signature enigmatic smile of his. "Your instincts are well-honed. Someday you will no longer be _spooked_ by your own insight – and there will open before you a realm of unimagined possibilities."

Obi-Wan was not certain he wished to cultivate a sophisticate's tolerance for Dark premonition. "Master Yoda says familiarity breeds contempt, and contempt breeds blindness. So in the end I should end up more ignorant than ever."

Dooku snorted, dismissing the feeble diversion tactic as the flimsy defensive guard it was. "I am well aware what Yoda says on the topic," he grumbled. "But I assure you, platitudes are of no mortal help when one is, ah… _entering openly into enemy territory."_

"Yes, Master."

This quelled the older man's ire, inspiring his apprentice with another darkly ironic observation: platitudes might be unacceptable within the chiaroscuro realm of Dooku's ethical sensibilities, but words of un-nuanced submission did not seem to fall under this ban on spouting thoughtless rote responses.

Te Sentinel's shadowed eyes slid sideways cagily, and Obi-Wan tightened his mental shields another notch.

Too late. "I have found," the Jedi master observed dispassionately, attention once more directed out the viewport, where the hyperspace tunnel traced sickening whorls of light upon the curved transparisteel, "that it is best to meet youthful rebellion head-on. What is it that inspires your sanctimony _this _time?"

"I would not dare invoke a _platitude_ in defense of the obvious," the padawan countered, dead pan.

The Force lurched dangerously as Dooku sucked in a sharp breath. "Then speak for yourself, if you are man enough to take exception to my actions."

Both gauntlets thrown down upon the decks, so to speak, Obi-Wan rose to the challenge with flashing eyes. "It was _wrong_ to take the B'Tmothi scroll without informing the Dantooine community."

"From your point of view."

"And theirs. And the Council's."

"Do not be so cock-sure of the Council's stance on every controversy, Padawan. You presume too much."

"I have stood through enough formal reprimands to know a _good deal_ of what the Council will and will not tolerate," the young Jedi reminded his superior.

Still infuriatingly calm, Dooku raised both brows. "Ah, the advantage of standing in Qui-Gon's shadow, yes."

Obi-Wan scowled, catching the inside of his lip between his teeth lest he issue a hot retort in defense of Qui-Gon Jinn's character. There was truth in what Dooku said; spontaneous and unpredictable obedience to "the Will of the Force" was not always the most charming and reasonable apologia one could issue to the Order's ruling body. He had vicariously paid the price for such borderline arrogance, again and again over the years. And a few times on his own behalf, he remembered with a rueful pang.

"But I think you will find that their tolerance achieves a wider balance when maverick conduct is tempered by foresight and broad strategic implications," the senior Jedi continued.

"So you admit that it is _maverick."_

"It is outside conventional protocol, certainly. Does that disturb you?"

Obi-Wan did not back down. "Yes."

But he provoked only a thin chuckle. "It is not your place to question my decision, though you may lay your disturbance before the Force during your next meditation."

Rank was a trump card, full sabaac every time. The padawan sighed. "Yes, Master."

"What else?" Dooku demanded, keen to land a second strike. "The Sisters are eminent in your thoughts. They were quite sincere in their attempts to kill us, you know. A strong hand is required when handling feral beasts, Padawan. Do not feign squeamishness with me – I know you too well."

And that also was true, another scoring hit. He could fight ruthlessly himself, when occasion called for it. But…. his gaze was drawn magnetically back toward the passenger compartment. But… "It always seems wrong for those who belong to the Force to fight one another. The worst internecine strife."

The Sentinel waved a dismissive hand. "The Sisterhood does not _belong_ to the Force, even to the true Dark Side. At best , they are its cheap whores." He followed up this condemnation with a hard look at his padawan. "And do not let your heart deceive you into thinking of them as…_pathetic life forms."_

And to that barbed and multi-layered admonition, there was no honest answer that would not be deemed _rebellious._

"I will be mindful," Obi-Wan replied, neutrally.


	19. Chapter 19

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

The garbage trawler had sufficient innate courtesy to defer its inevitable malfunction until after reversion from hyperspace, a small mercy for which Qui-Gon was indeed grateful. However, that seemed to exhaust his reserve of good fortune, for the ship informed him that its fuel stores were depleted and its emergency thruster system 50,000 parsecs overdue for routine maintenance.

"Son of a Hutt," he grumbled, eyeing the approaching planetary mass with a far more abstract and grimly calculating air than was his wont. Diaphanous cloud cover and the faint suggestion of lush continents below did nothing to palliate his present concern with acceleration and angle of re-entry, the laws of physics now gripping his attention far more surely than those of aesthetics.

_This is why I hate flying, _ that wry internal commentator- the one who spoke in a very crisp young voice – offered by way of encouragement.

He felt that he should offer the absent curmudgeon some form of rebuke, but he had no idea whence the scrap of memory originated, nor why that authoritative impulse followed like thunder in the wake of lightning.

He was, however, fairly sure that this did not qualify as flying.

This was falling. And in such straits, the vessel failing beneath him, around him, morphing from conveyance into lumpen mass, he had no recourse but to call upon the Force without reserve, holding the plummeting hunk of durasteel at a more oblique angle, nose up, up – glide, don't _dive - _ shaping the invisible currents about its hull as ionic fire rose off the superheated metal, as the entire carapace rattled violently in upper atmosphere –

-soared, plummeted, dove, flew –

-enormous, impossible pinnacles of stone, wind sculpted towers rising majestically thousands upon thousands of meters high, a forest of petrified castles, fantastic contorted columnar monuments of rock, enveloped by a mutable sea of mist, by thickening fog, moisture streaming down the hot viewport, blurring the dreamscape to coursing tears, to rivulets and rills –

A sudden spike of danger, and he was pulling against the planet itself, gravity and the Force in equal opposition, his every nerve taut, his muscles straining as though it were his physical body that fought to keep the hurtling ship aloft, to veer it sideways – do not hit the settlement, the living beings, the people, do not hit them, do not do not –

Keening of metal against stone, and then a jolt, another jolt, and blackness imploded - the hard mass of this world retaliating, smashing through luminous restraint, crushing, grinding, blasting him to oblivion.

His mind screamed in protest and then escaped through a widening fissure, into pristine Light. He rolled out of the mangled pilot's seat and slumped, inert, upon the buckled and rent decks.

* * *

Obi-Wan pressed two fingers to either temple and rubbed savagely, a thin breath escaping between his teeth.

Dooku flicked his perceptive gaze sideways, inquiring.

"It's nothing, Master." Somewhere deep in the Force, there was a lurch and a jolt, and then excoriating darkness – a synaptic snap as of impending migraine, the familiar dull ache of Qui-Gon's absence rendered more acute. But he was well-practiced in release and control, and he had the headache nicely subdued by the time the Sentinel initiated the reversion sequence.

Starlines contracted into disparate points, and the Republic shuttle hiccupped back into realspace with barely a shudder of protest, the console proclaiming its own enviable competency in a fanfare of green light and soft pings. Master Dooku's preferred transport was always kept in immaculate working order, like all the man's things. He raised an eyebrow at his apprentice, perhaps an injunction to bring himself up to this par, and then waved a hand at the ominous orb lying before them, the dark sphere of Dathomir limned in striating light, half-eclipsing its own dull star from this angle.

"I've not been here ever before, Master," Obi-Wan remarked, peering at the gloomy spectacle through lowered lashes. The blinding corona appeared a bloody crimson, a trick of the world's atmosphere, he was sure. Or almost sure.

But the Sentinel was in a reticent mood, and no details of any former voyages to this far-flung and questionable bastion were revealed. "The Sisterhood has a venerable custom of executing trespassers," he informed his padawan, dryly. "It will be necessary to emphasize our diplomatic immunity."

Obi-Wan snorted, a soft eruption of black humor. "You mean display our _immunity_ openly?" His hands strayed across his sabers' hilts.

Dooku's thin lips curved sardonically upward, a wordless affirmative.

Before any further elaboration was possible, the ship's console blipped , signaling an incoming transmission. The young Jedi leaned eagerly over the commsat display, frowning over the short text-only missive appearing upon the data-screen.

"Beacon in place. Do not contact me, Jedi _karbuku," _he read aloud, turning to the Sentinel with a mildly amused expression.

"Ah. Your vassal is severely lacking in courtly manners. Perhaps you should show him rather more of the back of your hand."

"It is culturally ingrained, Master. I've looked up his people in the Archives records – the Darshiki are a pygmy variant of the Noghri. Belligerence is a mark of respect among warriors. They reserve gentility for mates, offspring, and ancestors."

Dooku's grey eyes danced, a little. "I should hardly characterize _product-of-miscarriage_ as a respectful appellation… but I laud your cosmopolitan outlook."

"Yes, well." Obi-Wan shifted, testily. "While I'm in such a universally tolerant mood, perhaps I ought to check on our guest?"

"Do." The Jedi master dismissed him with an idle wave of his hand.

The padawan rose and excused himself to the aft compartment, clamping down hard on his rising excitement at Kar'Thon's latest piece of intelligence. That the beacon had been activated meant they were one step closer to discovering Syfo-Dyas' location; one step closer to running the renegade Sentinel to ground, exacting…. _justice_ upon his traitorous, murderous head.

Justice. He hesitated in the connective passage, the thin plastoid panel stretched blankly before him, sealing him from the hold, breathing slowly, in a controlled pattern. All his training over the last year had been honed toward this purpose, toward making of him a _blade_ of the Force, swift and passionless wrath of Light. He turned his hands over, studying the small calluses earned in years of combat training, the hairline scars here and there from a burn or a stray bolt.

Dooku had hinted that _Knighthood _might be the inevitable flower of such an act, the final end of this long-germinating seed. That he would be young, yes, but not an unworthy addition to the ranks of Sentinel, of unremitting guardian-watchers, the elite of the Light.

A blade. A fierce, avenging servant of balance. Jedi.

The prospect was so… overwhelming that his gut twisted in anticipation, in preparation, as though he stood at the brink of a precipitous drop, an abyss of potentiality. But he was not yet ready to relinquish the privilege of doubt, the human weakness allowed him as _learner,_ so he tucked away the budding awareness of the trial to come and focused instead on the present moment and its more pedestrian task.

Their hostage was nominally conscious, her crimson-crowed head lolling back defiantly as he entered.

"We are near your home," he informed her, risking a tendril of Force, of inquisitive probing.

She repelled the feeble assault on her shields and leered at him. "You have a death wish. Mother will _kill_ you for what you have done."

He crouched, bringing them to eye level. "I am sorry it came to a fight. I would not choose to harm _anyone."_ Without due cause, without the provocation of blasphemy against life itself. He was not a pacifist, and this knowledge settled like lead in his gut.

She chuckled at him, a delirious arpeggio of contempt. "Liar. Like every other pompous eunuch in your Order."

"You don't know anything of my Order."

The Sister sucked in her cheeks, fevered eyes watching him, the tear-smeared _kohl_ dripping in unruly zig-zags across her pain-pinched features – and then _spat_ full in his face, lip curling over her teeth. "I know not to pry too deeply into a pile of fetid _chisszk."_

He stood, wiping his face on one tunic sleeve, and executed an ironically deferent bow before sweeping out the hatchway.

"That went well," he muttered to himself.

* * *

When Qui-Gon came back to himself, he was encircled by solicitous attention, a ring of smiling, curious faces peering down upon him with mingled awe and concern. Dragging his mind up out of a painful morass, he focused upon the muted babble of voices: the language was a garbled blend of Basic, Bocce and a native dialect he did not know – but he was able to decipher the gist of their chatter.

"Trader? – no. No goods in the hold."

Hands picked at the Iegan silk cloak, reverently stroking the smooth weave. One bold finger reached forward to touch the 'saber's hilt, and on instinct, his hand jerked upward to grasp the weapon before a terrible accident could occur.

People skittered backward in alarm.

He sat, hands palm-upward in a conciliatory gesture. "I intend you no harm."

The crowd moved in again, magnetically drawn to him.

"Please," he stuttered, head clearing slowly. "Was no-one hurt?"

There was some argument over these words; he was given to understand, through the conveyance of mime and elaborate description, that his crash had killed three of the village's cherished livestock, a calamity for which they did not hold him responsible, but which weighed heavily upon their minds.

Grunting, he attained his feet, and clutched a warped overhead strut for support. A renewed wave of astonished muttering echoed in the trawler's wrecked hull. He was a third again as tall as any of them, and this impressive fact became the focus of much speculation as to his origins.

"Wookiee?" he heard one excited fellow squeak from the back of the gathering.

"Human," he corrected, wondering whether his unruly mane looked quite _that_ unkempt, and whether any of these locals had ever laid eyes upon a genuine native of Kashyyk. "My name is Qui-Gon Jinn."

Somebody pointed at the lightsaber, wondering openly what sort of weapon it was.

"I am a Jedi," he added, though realized swiftly that the name had little meaning for them. "Seeker. Pilgrim. I am looking for the Shaman of the Whills."

One of the elders, a small wizened man, almond-shaped eyes wreathed with many lines, broad face surrounded by a wisping white thatch, his head adorned with an elaborately embroidered cap, nodded. "Seeker," he repeated, stymied. One golden-skinned hand pointed upward, into the mists above, toward the heavens. "The Shaman?" he asked, mouth splitting in a toothless smile.

"Yes."

A ripple of laughter, a joke he could not quite grasp. Something about having come the _wrong direction _and a few centuries too late.

The tall man prodded at his ribs, testing for serious injury, but found none. The ship stank and smoked about them, derelict and well beyond repair here in this manifestly underdeveloped and primarily agrarian society. "This ship," he addressed the elder, supposing him a communal leader of sorts. "Take it for scrap – in payment for your lost _ayyaks."_

His offer was received with vehement thanksgiving – a kingly recompense for his unwitting destruction of property. He was soon chivvied- or herded- out of the wreck and into the circle of nomad's dwellings just beyond, surrounded by his brightly garbed hosts, bombarded by a swelling symphony of cheerful voices.

Half-dazed, and still mulling on their strange reaction to his mention of the Whills, he allowed himself to be conducted into the simple arena of their hospitality.

* * *

Dooku set the shuttle down upon a sub-equatorial plateau, a barren sprawl of rock and dust jutting out from a weary line of mountains. They did not disembark immediately, taking a full half-hour to complete the shield-of-Light meditations together in the cockpit. The Sentinel's long years of experience settled over them both like a heavy mantle, a palpable protection against encroaching shadow. Obi-Wan sank deep into the shared trance, girding himself, strangely warmed by the older Jedi's presence, relishing the rare occasion on which he was taken beneath his master's proverbial wing.

"This place is polluted," Dooku observed gravely. "Do not relax your guard here." He rested both hands upon his apprentice's shoulders, silently commanding the younger man to meet his eyes. A long and probing look ensued, the Sentinel's examination delving deep beneath the surface while his counterpart refrained from squirming. Once satisfied that body and mind were in balance, both of them in good order, he stood.

"Bring our charming hostage along. By now her sisters have slunk home to Mother and fabricated a tale of woe. I expect emissaries to be sent out for us."

Bringing the hostage proved more difficult than anticipated; the captured Sister resisted Obi-Wan's efforts to lead her down the ramp in shackles, fighting like a cornered akk and finally going deadweight on him , biting and hissing. He ended wrenching her shoulder badly in the ensuing scuffle, earning himself a new string of uncomplimentary nicknames, and a kick that landed perilously close to his groin. Finally exasperated to the point of losing his _cosmopolitan outlook _ entirely, he threatened to shave her scarlet nerftail with his 'saber – and was rewarded with cursing compliance.

All the same, the woman opted to stagger forward unevenly ahead of them, her shame displayed vividly as she collapsed upn her knees a few paces outside the ramp.

"Let us wait," Dooku suggested, ignoring the prisoner's quiet rage.

The padawan took the opportunity to study their new surroundings – cautiously, for he took to heart his mentor's warning against touching the tainted Force too deeply here. Dark trees writhed upward from cracks in the sun-hardened earth, tortured wraiths escaping cold stone graves. Some of the nearest branches were weighted with heavy seed-pods, nearly the size of a man. He frowned at these, feeling a weird eddying of the universal energy about them, a dark pregnancy.

Dooku directed his attention back to the far horizon, where a thin line of dust heralded the arrival of repulsor vehicles. An invisible wind rose in the Force, a hot gusting that whipped up visceral emotions like so many black and tattered pennants. The wind bore voices, shrieking, chanting ones raised in a whispering chorus. Dooku's hand closed about his elbow, an anchor pulling a drifting vessel back against the implacable rocks of his own calm.

And the convoy skidded to a halt amid a cloud of Dathomir's lifeless red dust. Eight more warrior-women flanked a central figure, taller and far senior to any of them, a being whose crone-like corporal form barely concealed the occult shaft of un-Light beneath, whose wheedling, reedy hag's voice echoed in the Force like formidable thunder, a thing genderless and deep as mountains' roots. Crimson floated about her, whether clothing or hair or the aura of some hidden presence, it was hard to say. The old woman's face was painted into a death's head mask, her deep-sunken eyes like twin embers in the ghastly visage.

To Obi-Wan's astonishment, Dooku offered this newcomer a reverent bow, and he followed suit.

The ancient witch made a singularly graceful gesture of welcome with one clawed hand. "Yan Dooku," she purred, and yet growled. "It has been a long, long time. And who is this?" A step forward brought her within arm's distance of the young Jedi. One had traced over his face without touching. He did not flinch.

"My apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padawan: may I present Mother Talzin, of the Nightsisters."

"I see you treat your own acolyte better than mine," Mother observed, voice laced with dangerous placidity.

"An exchange," Dooku suggested, unperturbed. "The return of your wayward youth for a parley."

Mother Talzin waved at her escort, who lowered their shimmering weapons. "Which of you inflicted wounds upon my little ones?" she asked, shadowed eyes narrowing.

"Both of those whom they needlessly and brashly attacked," Obi-Wan retorted, boldly.

"Arrogant to match your master," their intimidating hostess rasped, smoldering eyes boring into the padawan's mental shields, but making little progress. Her gaze flicked to the humiliated member of her own clan, then to her honor guard. "Take Rue back home. I will tend her myself."

When a foursome of the younger women had gathered up their injured sibling and carted her off, Talzin offered the Jedi a thin, knifing smile. "We have much to discuss," she declared, already turning back, her garments still snaking about her like heavy smoke. "Come."


	20. Chapter 20

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Qui-Gon sat at ease within the round, portable shelter of the tribal chieftain, surrounded by the man's children and grandchildren, every one of whom regarded the impossibly tall and broad-shouldered stranger with bright, inquisitive gazes, a dozen pairs of liquid brown eyes turned upon him as he sat and slowly consumed the meal proffered him with exquisite courtesy by the lady of the house. Tent. Uurk.

The Jedi master chose to focus upon these innocent lights, the youngsters of this small community, rather than the contents of his steaming bowl. He chewed carefully, keeping textural considerations to a bare minimum, especially after being told that the meaty dumplings he was presently consuming had "just come off this morning."

"You come from the _caell?"_ a particularly round-faced girl asked him, snuggling close beneath the Iegan silk cloak, wrapping its voluminous folds about her own slight frame.

"I traveled through the stars…I come from the Ieng'lis," Qui-Gon explained, the far shore of his memory reaching only thus far. His answer provoked a cascade of squeals and shrieks of awe, and renewed attempts to touch and tug upon his hair and cloak for luck.

The elder took his place in the circle at last, sitting upon a flat cushion. Eyes like inverted crescents watched the newcomer gravely. "You seek the Shaman," he began, hushing his rambunctious progeny with a single sharp gesture. "None has come to consult the Whills in more than three sun-cycles."

Without any notion how long the planet took to circle its appointed star, this information was not enlightening. "You said I was too late," he answered, cautiously. "But the Lady of the Ieng'lis sent me here to find the Shaman. Is she mistaken?"

The chieftain shrugged. "No… not mistaken. But the Whills – they are all dead. A long, long time dead. Twenty generations ago."

Qui-Gon exhaled slowly. "You are certain?"

Here the tribal leader's wife shooed all the younger family members out the tent closure. She set sweet incense to burn in a shallow brazier. "They have all moved on," she assured him. "My grandmother spoke with them, and the Shaman told her."

This had the tall man frowning in confusion. "How is this?"

A gesture he could not quite interpret – not a shrug, not exactly a symbol to ward off evil spirits, but something in between. "She had the Sight. And she climbed to the Sanctuary when she was young." The old woman lapsed into silence.

Qui-Gon drained the rich broth at the bottom of his bowl, watching the oily liquid swirl within the pale curve of ceramic. "And where is this Sanctuary?" The least he could do would be to ascertain the certainty of his failure. And perhaps… if the Whills had once dwelt in that mysterious place… seek guidance from the Living Force. He would need it badly.

The chieftain grinned, revealing a smile with one or two gaping lacunae, a wisdom to fit him: hoary, engaging, but with some missing teeth in it. He pointed upward, too. "At the summit of the _stylon_. You will have to climb; we have no flying vessels and there will be no more traders now until the season changes."

The hostess now poured round a fermented milk beverage, frothy and viscous, its tangy scent filling the warm air contained with in the uurk's simple geometry. "We will weave spirit-bells in your raiment and hair," she told him. "They will fend off ill fortune, and speed your journey. Also you must go slowly and breathe deep – the air is thin at the top of the peak, so my grandmother said."

The very thought of ascending one of the vast stalactites, the monstrous rock pillars jutting up form the planet's surface like the ruined supports of some titan's cathedral, with only one liquid cable, his bare hands, and the Force, suddenly struck Qui-Gon as the very epitome of a damn fool's crusade. But he was committed, more deeply than he himself understood, and he knew his path now lay straight up the slopeless sides of those fearsome pillars. "May I beg your hospitality tonight?" he murmured, pressing his hand over his heart as he had seen their people do.

"You are welcome, seeker."

Later, as he lay wrapped in an _ayyak _ hide within the shelter of a small uurk on the circle's outskirts, he had quiet and time to mull over what he had heard. If the last of the Whills had perished three centuries hence, how was it that neither the Lady and the Old One seemed to know of this, or to care? Was his quest to end in disillusionment? Or had he been seeking just such a harsh awakening all this time?

Scowling deeply at the textured supports of the dwelling, he plunged deeply into his own recalcitrant memory, seeking the origin and motive behind this all-consuming mission – and yet, the past was still obscured, lost in a cave somewhere on Iembo, burned out of him somewhere along the path. The Force shifted, flowed, a river coursing over river stones he could feel but not touch, its current running uphill toward some undiscovered spring. And in his uneasy dreams, he followed its path, until he collapsed exhausted upon a Light-rimmed bank, and woke with a start to the new dawn.

* * *

The Sisterhood's fortress loomed in the Force starkly, a thing shrouded in thick folds of pungent darkness, a shadowed tabernacle imbedded deep within the womb of a heavy rock spur. Obi-Wan passed beneath a squat door's engraved lintel, shoulder to shoulder with Dooku, their cloak hems skirling together at their heels. Mother led the way, her honor guard bringing up the rear at a cautious distance from their Jedi guests.

Up a long and slanting passage, one whose textured walls seemed to tremble, closing in upon them as they penetrated further into the gloom, and then another portal, this one a circular and heavily barricaded slab of pale stone. Talzin waved one cadaverous hand before it, and it melted away before their eyes, illusory.

"Come," their mephitic hostess repeated, leading the way onward into the interior chamber, a cavernous hall hewn from the mountain's heart, its walls and domed roof threaded with a crimson-hued mineral. The center of this dim-lit space was dominated by a crude table, a structure more evocative of blood sacrifice than ambassadorial welcome. They were waved into curved chairs, the garish Sisters behind them taking up alert stances at the room's four corners.

Mother Talzin sank gracefully into her own throne, her garments still undulating in the restless penumbra of her spirit. A white hand was laid flat upon the table's ebony plain, pointed nails rasping faintly against the polished stone.

"Now," she said, her voice simultaneously parchment thin like a hag's and yet drumming deep and furious in the Force, an overtone of power and cunning, "Let us strike a bargain. You are carrying with you something which rightly belongs to the Night Sisters."

Yan Dooku leaned back in his seat, one white brow twitching upward. "On the contrary, the object you speak of has never been in your sorority's possession. I do not see why you lay claim to it now."

The death's head makeup writhed as Mother's features changed beneath it, lending it a pantomime of decayed life. Her eyes burned steadily in their darkened sockets. "The Brotherhood was _robbed_ of that scroll by your Order. Do you deny it?"

"Alas," the Sentinel purred, "What is done is done. They were, I believe, robbed of the holocron by your own agents."

"What is done is done," Talzin hissed back at him. "The Brotherhood should have bequeathed both objects to us, rather than permitting them to be interred on a dead moon and in the hands of … outsiders."

Dooku spread his hands, indifferently. "I am not privy to the petty squabbles of your sects. If the Brothers and Sisters have suffered a - schism, shall we call it? - then it is none of my concern."

The witch steepled her white fingers together into a knotted architecture of spires and bony buttresses. "What is your concern, Master Dooku?" The name escaped her lips like a taunt.

Obi-Wan could not resist a brief sidelong glance at the Sentinel, though the adamantine shielding they had mutually constructed about their psyches before entering this place prevented him from sensing the man's intent. He was met with the tiniest of nods and frowns, an admonition to hold his tongue and cooperate.

"I should like to strike a bargain," the senior Jedi announced.

"A bargain." Their hostess smiled, a horrific leer.

"Yes." With the pensive grace of a master dejarik player, Dooku gently tapped manicured fingers upon the table's surface. "The scroll in exchange for some vital information."

Mother Talzin's ember-like eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."

The Sentinel offered her a thin and insincere smile. "The location of the B'Tmothi artifact and this corresponding scroll were known to only a handful of my Order. Indeed, there is only one person from whom you might have obtained such knowledge."

"I might have known, Yan Dooku, that you would be hard on his heels."

"He was here," the silver-haired Jedi pressed. "And I wish to know what you gave him in exchange for the location of these two stolen items."

"I see." Talzin's voice thrummed with a harsh undertone, the echo of her displeasure thundering beneath sound. "You would have me ransom what is rightly mine by betraying a trust?"

Dooku was unmoved. He indulged in a cold chuckle. "From your point of view, perhaps. I offer you a balance of mutual concessions; you want this scroll, I want Syfo Dyas."

Now it was the Mother's turn to chortle. "You want his head. Do not honey the truth, Master Jedi. I do not fear such things, and the petty squabbles of your sect are none of my concern."

The Sentinel acknowledged this riposte with a gracious nod. "Then you agree to my terms?"

Talzin's hooded gaze settled upon Obi-Wan. "Your acolyte does not approve of our bargain," she observed, lazily.

Mortified that he had displayed his personal reaction so openly at a negotiating table, and while exercising the most strident mental control, the young Jedi further betrayed himself by blushing furiously.

"Do not be alarmed," Mother soothed him. "I can see what few others can. And you are a mere male – your kind always wear their vulnerabilities on the outside."

Thrusting the overtones of this statement aside, he dipped his head. "It is my master's prerogative to seal this agreement," he demurred.

This seemed to amuse the ancient witch. "I suggest an exchange of sorts," she purred, the inaudible resonance of her voice more grating than ever. "I shall tell you, Yan Dooku, what I told your colleague, but with collateral on both sides. You shall keep the scroll in your keeping until I have fulfilled my promise, and as safety I shall hold your apprentice. We shall return each other's property when the bargain is closed."

Obi-Wan watched the Sentinel narrowly, harnessing the upstart hammer-beat of his heart. Dooku leaned back, expression inscrutable, much as it was when he felt himself closely played at the dejarik table. A languid wave approved the arrangement. "If you have need of such primitive assurances. I am a man of honor."

"We do not trust any man's _honor,"_ Mother Talzin replied, behind a dead veneer of courtesy. " She stood, and the Jedi mirrored her actions.

"Master," Obi-Wan said, relinquishing his sabers into Dooku's keeping. He met the Sentinel's eyes, probing for answers.

"This should not take long," the older man murmured. "Be wary."

"Yes, Master."

The foursome of young witches stepped forward, weapons at half-mast. "Shall we bind him?" the nearest inquired.

Mother smiled indulgently. "If it pleases you … but be gracious. You may learn something from one another." Beside her, Dooku's piercing gaze amply communicated his agreement with this wisdom.

Obi-Wan released a long breath and steeled himself to _learn something_ from his belligerent new escort. Force willing, this would indeed not take long.

* * *

The diminutive nomads performed a ceremonial blessing, burning fragrant herbs and chanting the traditional words of benediction. The chieftain's wife and three daughters of the family took great pains to tie colored threads and bells into the Jedi master's long hair and garments, eight knots to each strand, signifying the eight directions. More fermented milk was passed hand to hand, and then the assembly departed, leaving the pilgrim alone among the silent ranks of stone pillars, the barren plain beneath them barred now with blaring dawn light and deep gashes of shadow, white upon purple, indigo upon gold. The wind moved slowly, a hypnotic counterpart to the last evaporating wisps of incense in the early morning air.

It was time.

Qui-Gon approached the base of the mighty _stylon- _the most gargantuan of those rising from the easterward desert plain, an impossibly huge shaft of variegated stone soaring into the heavy mists above, seeming to climb like the magical stalk in the younglings' tale, straight into a cloudy realm beyond, a fantasy realm where giants dwelt. A diurnal wind caressed the canyon's pillars, spilling round the looming stone columns and jangling at the small bells painstakingly woven by his hosts into hair and the hems of his tunics. Dust devils stirred up and subsided, like snakes charmed by the gentle chiming, and he smiled.

Here, in this surreal forest of petrified time, of an architecture beyond the scope of imagination, anything seemed possible. The Force whispered in his ear, tantalized him with the promise of journey's end, a few miles upward, where the atmosphere brushed against absolute heaven.

He checked that his rebreather was secure in its pouch. It might be useful at extreme altitude, were he strong enough to make it that far. The cloak of the Ieng'lis he had rolled into a compact bundle inside a makeshift pack, alongside dried provisions and a supple water-skin. One hand he traced against the girth of his appointed mountain, the rise of stone not entirely perpendicular here, but twisting and writhing upward, grooved and sculpted by what must have been vast prehistoric oceans, and later by scouring wind. Geologic strata lay exposed in brilliant stripes of ochre, red, and chalky white, a whorled artistry fading into uniform grey as the mists swallowed the pinnacle's upper reaches.

He knelt to meditate one last time before undertaking this mad task, and then launched his liquid cable high overhead, gratified by the solid thunk of the grappling claw sinking into some obliging nook or cranny above. A jerk to test his weight, and he began to climb, using hands and feet and brute strength, relying upon the thin line only as emergency anchor.

Slowly, painfully, he began the final ascent.


	21. Chapter 21

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

"So, Jedi boy, not so haughty without your _sabers,_ hmm?"

Obi-Wan stalked behind the foremost Sister, noting the labyrinthine networking of passages through which he was led. "Try me," he smirked, not liking the tenor of his would-be captor's mocking attempt at conversation.

The girl swiveled, crimson topknot swishing over one bare shoulder, hands going to her hips. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

His brows crept upward. "I thought you were told to be _gracious?"_

"You're alive. Be grateful." Painted lips curled over small teeth. "That's as hospitable as I feel like being to an intruder."

They descended a steep stairwell to another subterranean level of the sprawling complex. "Your Mother invited us here, you know."

"You are _males._ You don't belong here." They reached a pressure sealed door, which slid open at their approach. Two of the young women took up sentry posts to either side. "You can stay _here._ One foot past the door and we'll kill you."

He flashed a grin. "I've heard that before."

The Sister struck out savagely at his face, but he ducked beneath the blow, burying a shoulder in her armored chestplate. She staggered back, and a Force-push sent her nearest companion skidding down the hall in disarray. The remaining two jumped their captive, seizing both arms in painful grips and brandishing vibroshivs.

"You arrogant, reeking heap of offal." The second slap landed squarely across his cheekbone, provoking little more than a grunt and a half-smile of challenge in response to the heated pejorative. "Typical."

He was shoved unceremoniously into a small cell-like room, and the door locked behind him. So much for Dathomiri ambassadorial etiquette, Obi-Wan thought. _Gracious_ certainly bore a wide plethora of meanings in different Galactic cultures, but this was possibly an all-time low by his exacting standards.

Since there was little else to do besides of course force an escape strategy – something not included in Dooku's implied mandate to _learn_ from his inhospitable hostesses – so he went to his knees in meditation posture, rolling his shoulders a bit to loosen the knots put there by the cramping position of the binders about his wrists. If he achieved a deep balance in the Force, he would be spared the tedium of waiting for his master's business to conclude itself.

Some time later – difficult to gauge precisely how _much_ later – his quiet communion with the universal was rudely interrupted by a newcomer. The door hissed open to admit none other than Rue, the wounded Sister who had been brought hostage back to Dathomir aboard the Republic shuttle. She stepped across the threshold, and planted herself arms akimbo above him, clearly relishing the position of superiority.

Obi-Wan did not open his eyes immediately. Power and advantage, as he had learned well at Dooku's feet, had little to do with relative positions in space, or even the presence of binders upon one's person.

"Go away," the young witch ordered, and her compatriots grumblingly obeyed, a concession to some kind of internally recognized rank. The door slid closed again.

"I am glad that you are healed," Obi-Wan greeted her, finally emerging completely form his meditative state and having a good look at his unlikely visitor. She had hastily donned new make-up, a mere mask of stark white with a few harshly delineated lines beneath eyes and along the slope of her high forehead.

Rue's mouth twisted. "I am only here because Mother sent me. She says I may _learn_ something from you, Jedi."

He nodded warily as she sat before him, cross-legged like one of the initiates in Master Yoda's youngest classes… intently watching his every motion, eyes raking over the length of padawan braid dangling over his shoulder.

"Is that the sign of your bondage?"

He snorted. "Obedience. To a master of the Order. To the Code and precepts. To the Force. There is no _coercion _or bondage in that which is undertaken willingly."

Her eyes slitted. "It is still slavery, and a weakling's creed, if it prevents you from slaying an enemy. You think in your heart that women are soft and subject to pity, but you are the one who is too feeble to _act_."

The words bore a hidden barb; he was careful not to flinch. "Restraint is not a weakness," he offered. "Compassion, we are taught, is a greater strength than subjugation."

A derisive exclamation, like a strangled shout. "Is that why you tried to heal me aboard your ship? _Save_ your pity and compassion, Jedi. I don't need them."

Siri would never openly tolerate his pity, either; this fact emboldened him. "Perhaps it was not pity so much as respect," he offered, diplomatically. "You can feel the Force, as I can. There are … other ways to tread this path. You need not languish in such a hateful rut."

Hissing audibly, she drew back upon her haunches. "Oh, I _see._ You hope to sway me to embrace your own doctrines. You call that _respect?_ If you respect me – us, our way – you would not be so eager to convert us into copies of yourself. I call that imperialism, not compassion. Mother warned us that you Jedi are all fanatics and sophists. You don't fool me."

"I'm not trying to make you like me; I'm inviting you to step outside the narrow confines of this conclave. The Force is more than this –this _shadow- _ you live in."

Impatient, the Sister rose again and paced about him in a wide and discontented circle. "What am I supposed to learn from a brutish pillock like you?" she exclaimed, disgusted and unsettled at once. "This is ridiculous."

The first step to successful diplomacy was that of understanding the other's viewpoint. Obi-Wan tilted his head, conveying genuine curiosity. "Why do you hold men in such contempt?" he inquired.

She waved a dismissive hand at him. "You are the inferior gender, is that not obvious? In nearly every species, your kind are larger and more suited to manual and simpletons' work. Your grosser physicality marks you as lower beings. Nor do you have any power to produce and nurture life – you are merely seed-bearers. And you are all very ugly - especially _you_," she added, with a toss of her head. "We have little use for such base filth."

"Is that why your Mother is so desperate to strike a bargain with Master Dooku? Or why you needed Syfo-Dyas' help to locate your precious artifacts? Or why it takes eight of you to attempt a simple highway robbery?"

Rue's hands went to her knives, nestled in matching sheaths of tooled leather. "I can think of at least one way to render you more docile," she sneered, "- presuming your masters have not already spared me the trouble."

Such uncivilized threats were beneath any decent being's notice, much less a Jedi's. He closed his eyes and pointedly ignored her resentful presence, having nothing more to say upon the wearisome subject.

After a disgruntled few minutes, the young Sister seemed to get the hint, and stormed out again, leaving the Force sullen and turgid in her wake.

* * *

Winds buffeted his back, pressing him against the unyielding stone, or else seeking to pry him loose, icy fingers grasping at his limbs and garments, clawing at his handholds, numbing fingers already torn by endless climbing.

If he risked a downward glance, there was nothing but mist; upward likewise there was only the grey unknown. Much like himself, barricaded within the narrow limits of his quest, lost memory and the uncertain future occulting both past and future, leaving him stranded in a moment where there was no rest and no serenity, only a striving that admitted no failure. Muscles shaking with the effort – a sign of increasing age he chose to obstinately ignore – Qui-Gon crawled onward, every painful centimeter a test of his mettle, a trial so fundamental and unforgiving that it sent a shudder down his spine. Here, there was indeed no try: he would either make the summit or tire before he reached that lofty goal, and plummet to his certain death. Do or do not.

Passing time dissipated into the surrounding fog, and he was soon mantled in freezing droplets, a chill dampness seeping to his skin from without while his every joint and tendon screamed with inner fire. And yet upward, upward, he crept, luminous spirit gradually, ever so slowly, winning the battle over gross matter, the buoyancy of purpose lifting him beyond the demands of gravity and mortal flesh.

When blood pooled in the hollows between his trembling fingers, ran in slow rills over bruised knuckles, he pushed on. When the condensation turned to driving rain, razoring pellets of cold, he froze against the cliff until the bitter assault ended. When the eroded surface of the column crumbled to sand beneath his grasping fingers and he fell, abruptly jerked to a standstill by his anchorline, he breathed out the sheer animal terror and found a new starting place, not mourning the meters lost by his precipitous slide downward. When the wind seemed to mock him in a reedy whisper, he recited the lotus-of-incomparable-tranquility mantra in grunting breaths and pushed upward, indefatigable.

And when, without warning, his searching fingers found a rim more solid and wide than any he had discovered before, he raised a face stained by tears and sweat and dried to salty grit by the scouring wind, and beheld… the very pinnacle.

A plateau crowned by the crumbling ruins, the desiccated skeleton of an ancient Temple.

The Force sang in triumph as he hauled his battered body over the last ridge and collapsed face-first, gratefully surrendering to oblivion.

* * *

The negotiations were _not_ short.

When even sustained meditation failed to carry him through the endless vigil, and in the predictable absence of any food or drink, or even the meager comfort of a proper palette, Obi-Wan ran through three or four weaponless _kata_ as a means of dissipating physical tension, and then settled for propping his back against the hard corner of his interim prison, slipping into a half-aware state on the border between sleep and a light trance.

In his private quasi-dreaming, he walked the halls of the unifying Force, a colonnaded expanse without walls or buttresses, vast columns of stone rising into mist above, like the ceiling of the Temple's arboretum. His footfalls were hushed by the susurration of wind and rain, a gentle buffeting that left him neither chilled nor wet. Light shafted down upon him as he strolled between stripes of purple and gold, shadow and luminance, beneath the watchful eyes of impossible sculpted towers. As he strode up the limitless arcade, his awareness soared upward until he was rising toward distant heaven alongside the rock spires, rushing through cloud and then sky until the pure stars shone cold above, and the pillars flattened into a desolate plain, a ruined city lying stark beneath pitiless consellations. A limpid moon hung, like an empty bowl, low on this second ethereal horizon, a wan observer.

And somewhere, near the outskirts of this strange place, he stumbled upon a soft bundle of cloth, the richest white silk imaginable. He knelt, and ran it between his fingers, feeling the tight-woven texture, the rasping sound as it slid over his skin and fell in shimmering folds, as lovely as a phlogista moth's wings. The garment bore a familiar signature, the ephemeral trace of one long missed –

He jolted back to full alertness, responsive to the approach of another quite different but still familiar presence. A quiet pressure at the back of his mind impressed upon him the need for stealth, forbade any motion or exclamation that would raise an undue alarm. Slowly, he stood and waited.

There were two Night-sisters outside the door, and surely many others in the vicinity. And yet Dooku's surreptitious approach went apparently unmarked, the Jedi Shadow slipping between the guards like ink running through darkness, mantled in a net of illusion so precise and impenetrable that he _disappeared _in the Force.

The door opened, and a black-cloaked figure flowed elegantly over the threshold, lowering his cowl to reveal aristocratic features crowned in close-cropped silver.

Obi-Wan bowed. "Master. I take it we're leaving?"

The Sentinel's lips curled upward, sardonic. "Yes. That might be prudent, under the circumstances." He silently released the bindrs' lockeing mechnaism, returned his apprentice's weapons.

"You were not able to reach an agreement with Mother Talzin?"

Dooku raised one brow. "Our objective here has been accomplished." He withdrew a small velvetar pouch from an interior pocket. "Carry this. In extremis, it would be best that the two artifacts not be discovered _together."_

The young Jedi gasped softly when the small bag hit touched his extended palm, the moment of contact sending an electric jolt up his arm and down his spine. "The B'Tmothi holocron!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "But, Master – "

"Not now, Padawan."

Biting back the flood of questions and _bad feelings_ provoked by the revelation of his mentor's treachery, Obi-Wan stuffed the precious object inside his own belt pouch and pulled his hood far over his face.

"Shield heavily and follow me closely. If it comes to violence," Dooku instructed, "Do not allow yourself to be seduced into complacency. The Sisterhood can be ruthless foes when provoked."

Which statement invited at least a dozen obvious retorts about the wisdom of _provoking_ such a reaction. Obi-Wan heroically refrained from voicing any of them, earning him a knowing half-smile from the master Sentinel. He barricaded his mind as deeply as possible in the Light, merging into Dooku's own powerful Force manipulation, flattening his own signature into a mere passivity, the shadow of a shadow.

And they walked, cautiously, back into the adjoining passage. The two Sisters watching the door looked straight through them, minds pliant to the suggestion of nothingness, of absence, the Jedi's passing no more than a ripple of warmth in a placid pool. Down the corridor, pacing in single file, boots barely rasping against the flagstones, up into a wide hall domed in polished metal, an ominous hub in the stronghold's center.

There were more of the witches here, and yet none seemed to notice them as they threaded their way across the echoing chamber, footfalls hushed and tentative.

"Where is Mother?" a voice whispered.

Another: "She has been closeted with that _Jedi_ too long."

"It is not our place to interrupt."

They attained the safety of the far door and slipped into an adjacent passage, one connected to a broad stairwell. Master and apprentice tripped lightly up the spiraling steps, reached the main hall above, pressed themselves into deep shadows between support buttresses as a foursome of armed Sisters passed by, and then made for the main portals, wide slabs of stone inscribed with twisting sigils, a torturous calligraphy wrought upon their wide surface.

Together, they gathered the Force and pried the massive panels apart –

To the din of shrieking alarms. A wailing banshee's cry went up from the violated doors, a stabbing incantation that shattered Obi-Wan's concentration and dispelled their projected disguise.

"Quickly," Dooku barked, shoving his padawan through the narrow aperture, out into the desolate courtyard beyond, blood red beneath Dathomir's brooding skies.

A ring of foes awaited them, decked in battle array, displeasure etched upon their haggard visages. Mother Talzin stood at their head, chuckling quietly to herself.

"Were you going somewhere, Master Dooku?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Qui-Gon divested himself of cloak and boots at the summit, for though the air at this impossible altitude was brisk, the sun's excoriating rays, unoccluded by thick atmosphere, still seemed to exude a harsh and merciless heat - a furnace's smelting blast, enough to render the hardest ore into liquid purity.

Each breath was difficult, leaving a small searing lash of _need _in his lungs, and he realized that the air pressure must be significantly lower than that to which his body was accustomed. A brief meditation and some subtle Force manipulation of his own blood, and he was able to stand and walk without dizziness – though had it come to a battle or more strenuous exercise, he doubted his stamina would hold. The ascent had been beyond grueling, and though the minor insults to his flesh – cuts, abrasions, bruises, chafed skin – had mended while he lay stuporous, half unconscious, half enmeshed in a healing trance, upon the rim of this weird quasi-celestial realm, the dull ache in his bones and limbs told him that he was calling upon the last clinging meniscus of his reserves, and would soon have nothing left but the Light itself.

It was a weird phenomenon – a peak so high and yet not covered in ice or snow, not buffeted by deadly winds. Beneath him, he could feel the planet spin along its appointed path, the giddy rotation about its axis as though this pillar were fashioned of plexiglass and durasteel, not a living extension of the world itself. But then, who was he to make such assumptions? He turned instead to that which he _knew_ to be the product of artifice, of sentient design and not the subtler creation of the Living Force: the ruinous Temple lying straight ahead, its bleached and crumbling ramparts strewn before him as though in mockery of his ambition.

He set out along the broken footpath leading thence, deftly avoiding the multitudinous cracks and jags in the ancient paving stones, giving unknown weeds and creeping vines a wide berth with his unprotected feet, noting the small posts set at regular intervals along either side – likely the disused supports for glowlamps or other lanterns. They stood askew now, like the crooked teeth of a crone, a jumble of teetering witnesses to his progress. He traversed this shattered viaduct to its far end, where solemn gates hung ajar, pressure pistons long since rusted into rigidity, the chromium plating oxidized to a dull and sickly opacity. He rubbed at the verdigris with one tunic hem, traced questing fingers over the etched patterns in the massive panels. There, rendered with exquisite detail, was an ornate variant of the winged flame, sacred emblem of the Jedi Order – a poignant reminder that the Whills' heretical and forgotten sect had at one time sprung from the same root.

Inward, to a gutted courtyard, and thence to a grand hall standing forlorn amid the wreckage of its own domed roof. And then another set of portals, bronzium this time, and intact. Beside them stood a weapons-rack, and a basin still half-full of sweet water, an offering of the clouds. The sky lazily spun overhead, a deepest violet, the merest shadow between this high eyrie and the starlit fields beyond.

The tall man hesitated here, upon the threshold of profundities, then centered himself in the unwavering and invisible beaconlight of the Force, and left his 'saber nestled between the rack's worn grips, scooped a handful of mineral-laden water from the basin and laved his face and hands, sprinkling the droplets upon the stones of the doorstep. He would enter unarmed and unshod, as pilgrim and supplicant, even if those who had once dwelt here were long since subsumed into the universal life.

The doors opened easily at his touch, issuing him into a sanctuary ravaged by time and light. He stood agape a long moment, eyes barely taking in the soaring fretwork of the ceiling – the once transparent dome now truly open to heaven – nor the wandering paths of the greenhouse arborium, nor the impossible sound of rivulets and falls chiming in chorus with the Light. Muted radiance shafted from the pulverized skylights; bench and path, retaining wall and ornamental planters were overthrown and sacked, laid bare and ravished by a surging wave of new life – tree and vine, grass and flower and seed and root overflowing the bounds of artifice, reclaiming the ruined temple's heart for their own. Had the Room of a Thousand Fountains on Coruscant been laid waste and left to grow unfettered for two centuries, it might too resemble this feckless paradise.

Qui-Gon turned a slow circle, all but inebriated, the Living Force resonating here like a bell tolling beneath all sound, omnipresent, superabundant, all-encompassing. Entranced, shuddering, he wended through the edenic grottos, along the moss-covered paths, to the very center, where a clearing of stone remained yet unclaimed, the inlaid mosaic a twisted knot of four strands encircling a deep well, and the fragile shrine that surmounted it. The Force sounded here, its immensity contracted and present, its echo welling immutable from the depths of that burbling shaft. He heard water below, or else wind, or else the throb and pulse of his own blood. Here, they were no different.

The place was a Vergence.

He melted onto his knees, and then lower, forehead pressed against the lichen-frilled stones. _I am here; I have come._

All about him, the Whills' abandoned retreat luxuriated in the late-day light, heedless of its makers' absence, making of the garden a riotous tribute to life, of their decay a triumph of renewal. _There is no death. There is the Force._

In the utter quiet of this secret tabernacle, he became aware of its other living denizens: avians and insects, a thousand winged creatures tending to and rejoicing in the bounteous overspill of nature, liveried in rarest feather gowns or gossamer fine armor. One or two lit upon him as he knelt, abased before the Light, waiting.

When day at last failed, and the distant star's radiance withdrew, the invisible Light descended in its place, until its fullness was a palpable weight, a molten luminance in his veins. Qui-Gon prostrated himself then, beyond anticipation or need, beyond counting the passage of minutes and hours, almost beyond self.

And when timeless ages had passed, or else no time at all, a voice unfolded itself from the mystery's depths and spoke to him.

"Well met, Seeker," it said.

* * *

Obi-Wan's feet fell into Makashi opening stance, hairs at his nape standing up in tense expectation even as his breath deepened into a perilous calm. Battle-awareness washed over him, blotting out all reality but the circle of foes surrounding them, binding him and Dooku into a single deadly unity of purpose.

"I take it this will be a precipitous departure, Master?"

The Sentinel cocked a single white brow at him, mildly repressive.

Mother Talzin took a single step forward, the crimson pennants of her weird garb still floating about her on an invisible updraft of displeasure. "We had an arrangement," she reminded her erstwhile guests. "You were not planning to leave without fulfilling the terms of that contract? The scroll, please." She extended a bony hand, white claws reaching for the coveted artifact, the drape of her sleeve revealing desiccated skin and protruding veins, an aging tapestry laid deceptively over iron muscle.

Dooku chuckled deep in his throat. "There is no honorable arrangement to be made with thieves," he retorted, unimpressed by the implied threat.

The Sisterhood drew its circle tighter. Obi-Wan swiftly gauged their number, mouth twisting as he noted that there were _far_ more than eight this time. Tactically speaking, he and his master had only one option: an aggressive retreat. There would be no question of dominating against so many trained combatants, in such open and unhelpful terrain. Their ship sat a short sprinting distance away, at the foot of a lonely scree at the hills' feet, but he doubted they could outrun the ferocious Dathomiri witchlings either. They were steeped far enough in the Force – Dark or grey, he could not rightly guess- to be formidable opponents under such unfair conditions.

The ancient hag made a strange clucking noise beneath her breath, eyes slitting. "Your arrogance will someday be your downfall, Yan Dooku." A curt wave of her hand sparked her score of minions into instantaneous movement; scarlet energy weapons hissed and spat into life, accompanied by the Jedi's blades. A half-second's bristling stand-off, and the battle was joined.

The Sentinels fought back to back initially, maintaining a furious defensive circle, blazing weapons shrilling in defiance as their tight Makashi parries and economical, lightning fast strikes drove the storm of assault backward. But such stationary tactics would avail them little in the final outcome. Soon Dooku had issued an order to _move,_ and the two Jedi sprang out of their impenetrable defensive guard and into motion, leaping high overhead, rolling and lunging through the sea of enemies, driving in an erratic but steady pattern toward the distant ship, the Sisters cursing and chasing after them.

Obi-Wan hissed between his teeth as a hot flash of energy singed past his thigh even as he back-flipped away from Rue's coiling whip-strike. Somebody had a bowcaster, or some unfamiliar energy-weapon equivalent. Projectiles made the combat more difficult – he fought savagely, abandoning Makashi in favor of Ataru and Jar'Kai, dealing out blows and sweeping attacks almost without respite, defense and offense blurring into a desperate unity as he strove to _carve _his way toward the waiting ship. Like a furiously burning star, he felt Dooku's similar progress beside him, ahead of him, a little behind. They inched forward over rocky, dusty terrain, and then parted, drawing the Sisters into two smaller groups.

Surrounded, embattled on all sides, the young Jedi felt a sudden release, the giddy siren call of the Force, taking him _all the way_ under, a kind of ecstatic immolation he associated only with the deepest meditative estate and the most pitched extremity of saber-play. A laugh that was part joy and part cry of pain escaped his lips, and his two sapphire blades scorched the air about him as he dropped his shields, burning in earnest now, Light flooding mercilessly through him, his weapons singing in defiance, in wild abandon as he laid low his adversaries, drunk on the moment, on the radiance all about him, within him, on sheer adrenaline.

He heard Talzin shriek something or other, an uncouth and horrid thundering command issued into the Dark's bowels, stirring up the very dust of the plain, raising a dead green mist from the earth itself. Sickly coils of mist entwined about him and he sprang away, and away again, but the vapor formed into a solidity, a thing of groping tentacles, of bodiless malice. The Sisters lunged through it, impervious or oblivious to its horror.

Distantly, above the thunderstorm of the rising Dark, he heard Dooku bark a strident warning – but too late. The green malaise crashed over his head, twisting about him, penetrating through every particle, closing about his core. He was seized, thrown bodily upon the unyielding earth, breath knocked away and the _shoto_ blade skittering away into the dust. A booted foot connected with his other sword-arm, sending a jolt of fire through his wrist and dislodging the second 'saber. A pulsing light-staff's tip was thrust against his exposed throat, and the foot settled with smug authority upon his chest, the heel grinding painfully into his diaphragm.

"Looks like we can _learn_ from each other after all," Rue sneered, looming over him in the sickly fog.

Talzin issued another command, and he heard the snap and hiss of Dooku's weapon deactivated. Figures darkened into silhouettes and then appeared through the green veils, until Rue and her captive were surrounded. The Sentinel's aquiline face was unreadable, only his grey eyes flashing with a rarified fury. Mother Talzin's death-head grimace curved into a self-satisfied smile.

She extended a hand, elegantly. "Now, Master Dooku, I think we might be able to reach a mutually agreeable arrangement. You still possess something of great value to me, and I have something of great value to you."

Rue's weapon crept anther centimeter toward the padawan's throat, sending a bright shaft of pain down his neck and up his jaw, the burn like ice and fire. He gritted his teeth, betraying no reaction, though his spine arched a little, lifting his back off the hard ground. The Night sister stomped down hard on his chest, slamming him back into place.

"Hold still, weakling," she snarled.

"Do not waste more of our time," Talzin warned the Jedi master.

Dooku's cold ire was apparent in every motion as he reluctantly removed the protective cylinder from his belt and handed it to the ancient crone with a short bow of defeat. "It would seem you have the upper hand this time, " he observed, flicking his cloak back over one shoulder and raising both brows at her.

The witch emptied the container and lovingly fingered the delicate parchment within, unrolling it to peruse its contents and then replacing it with great care. She waved a languid hand at Rue, who placed a solid kick to her prisoner's inner thigh before releasing him.

Obi-Wan sprang upright with what grace he could under the humiliating circumstances, and summoned his fallen weapons' hilts into his hands. He could barely stand to meet the Sentinel's eyes, but when he did he was surprised to find neither censure nor disappointment there.

"If we have been beaten," the senior Jedi magnanimously observed, "It was due to superior tactics, Padawan. We shall depart now."

The Sisters parted ways to allow them passage, and they limped toward the Republic shuttle, tails between their legs, the inaudible laughter of Mother Talzin and her coven ringing in the Force behind them

When they had slumped into the cockpit and lifted off, Dooku leaned into the pilot's chair and chuckled long and deeply, his mustaches quivering with smothered delight, his chest lightly trembling in mirth. Obi-Wan managed the navcomp and steered them out of the red planet's gravity well, then reached into his belt pouch and wordlessly handed the B'Tmothi holocron to his master.

The Sentinel turned the velvetar pouch between his long fingers. "A fair trade," he murmured. "Nothing is so blinding as the illusion of victory."


	23. Chapter 23

**Lineage IX**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

They executed a tight hyperspace jump back to Republic jurisdiction, and set the shuttle into a holding orbit just outside the nearest inhabitable system before either of them spoke another word.

Dooku secreted the recovered holocron inside his own tunics and turned to his apprentice. "Let me see it," he commanded.

Obi-Wan extended his bruised and throbbing wrist with a slightly curdled smile. The Sentinel shoved his inner tunic sleeve up and frowned over the livid blotches of purple and red, then brushed questing fingers over the swollen joint, eliciting a small hissing exhalation.

"Fractured," the senior Jedi murmured, disapproving. A warm tendril of healing energy wrapped itself about the bone, subtly and slowly mending the damage wrought by Rue's iron-tipped boot. "The Sisters are lamentably uncivilized."

"You knew it would come to a stand-off," Obi-Wan muttered, relief from the pain unleashing his tongue.

"It was a possibility," the Sentinel admitted. "We must be prepared for every eventuality."

The younger man shifted testily. "Including defeat."

Dooku's hands rose to his apprentice's temples, mental touch skimming lightly over his aura, seeking further injury. "You performed your part admirably." A soft snort. "Indeed, Talzin was forced to intervene herself. It created the appearance of a hard-won triumph. The confrontation distracted her from the possibility of a more thorough treachery, a mistake she will regret very soon, when she finds the holocron missing." A wave of warmth suffused the padawan's limbs, soothing bruises and abrasions, smoothing away the edges of his mounting irritation.

Obi-Wan fought to retain his annoyance, obstinately clinging to its dissipating strands. "You might have told me."

A silver brow twitched upward, but Dooku made no immediate reply.

The padawan shook off the lassitude that always followed in the wake of healing. "We _robbed_ the Dantooine Enclave, then _robbed_ the Night Sisters, and forced a confrontation for the sake of covering our tracks… for the three minutes that will last… I hope this was worth it, Master."

"Nothing is achieved without cost. We have removed the holocron from very dangerous hands, and Mother Talzin was very forthcoming about certain other matters."

Teh young Jedi let his head loll wearily sideways, squinting at him in the cockpit's dim lighting. Outside, the stars drifted lazily in their ebony field. A nebula draped languidly along the upper edge of the viewport, an artist's whimsical brushstroke against the unvarying void. "Syfo-Dyas came to her first."

Dooku interlaced his fingers and propped one gleaming boot against the forward console. "Yes," he mused, eyes hooded. "She relayed certain…rumors… to him. Information I must share with the Council at the first possible opportunity."

Obi-Wan was wise enough to perceive that "the Council" did not include padawans, present company included. He exhaled slowly, sinking against his will into the comfort of the padded backrest. "So we will return to Coruscant, then?" Not an engaging prospect: however much clout Dooku held among his peers, there would still be hell to pay for his padawan, who would be grilled in the third degree before the assembled Masters, simply to determine the extent of his culpability and the constancy of his obedience. He seemed forever to be under intense scrutiny this last year, as though Qui-Gon's mutinous departure from the Order's ranks somehow called his own loyalty into question. His hand came up and tugged at the unbound end of his braid, where the black thread of bereavement was noticeable by its absence.

He would not brood. He would live in the present, no matter how distasteful, and hope for the future, which was always in motion.

He was not aware he had been drowsing until the comsat's gentle ping woke him with a start.

"Ah, my friend," Dooku greeted the transparent image of Yarriss Moll, rippling with interstellar static interference.

The Iktotchi Sentinel inclined his horned head, large hands folded into opposite sleeves. "You have important news to impart."

"Yes." Dooku directed a single regal nod of dismissal at his padawan; the latter person stood and excused himself to the aft passenger compartment, bowing deeply to his mentor and allowing the heavy plastoid panel to close between them.

Before the hatch sealed, however, he heard a single phrase, one that hung ominously in the cool, 'cycled air.

"It is as we feared, Moll. The Balance is indeed shifting."

* * *

Qui-Gon rose shakily to his knees and looked up, eyes widening as they rested upon the strangely shimmering figure. He would certainly have mistaken the ancient being for a holographic image, had it not been for his acute – nearly painful – _presence_ within the Force. Flowing robes cascaded in long folds to the stones of the court; a long but meticulously groomed beard covered much of the face, but left a pair of deeply sunken yet bright-shining eyes visible. Palest blue light formed a blurred nimbus about this apparition as it gestured with one hand, an antique symbol of peace and greeting.

The Jedi master found his voice. "I come seeking the Shaman of the Whills; I was told by those who dwell below that he is long since departed into the Force."

An elusive smile creased the translucent features. "But the Force is everywhere, is it not?"

"Yes." Hesitantly, not daring to entertain the untamed thoughts surging in his heart, Qui-Gon bowed his head again. "May I – is it possible – that he may still speak? I have read of the Whills' doctrines…. I have come seeking their truth."

The luminous blue figure rumbled with mirth, a sound that emanated out of the Force's depths, soundless and yet compelling. A hidden chime tinkled merrily somewhere at the gardens' margins. "Finding truth and claiming it for one's own are very different things, my friend. Which do you seek?"

"Both. Whichever I am granted."

"Ah. You have learned caution, I see. That is a virtue rare in one so young."

It was Qui-Gon's turn to laugh, a mere breath of ironic derision. "I do not feel so young," he admitted, feeling the weight of the words settle in his aching joints, his weary mind. The burden of forgetfulness weighed him down, his anchorless journey haunted him.

"One without a past must be very young indeed," his mysterious interlocutor argued.

"From a certain point of view."

To his surprise, the shimmering image sat, as though the lip of the well's shrine could support some immaterial weight, as though matter was but a thread in some greater illusion, a tapestry in which spirit and appearance were but warp and weft. "You seek the Shaman. What did you desire to ask him?"

"I would ask – those of my Order have a doctrine. _There is no death. There is the Force._ I wonder… is this true of individuals?"

The old man smiled, enigmatic. "You would do better to ask, how is an individual true of this? Truths must be achieved, sometimes. The Force is not a _concept, _ any more than its service is a fool's meandering quest."

And Qui-Gon knew in that moment. He bent over again, pressing his forehead to the aged stones. "Forgive me, my master. My presumption and arrogance are inexcusable."

The Shaman's voice was stern. "Wisdom does not lie in the gutters to be dispensed to beggars; nor am I an oracle to be milked of secrets by a passing stranger."

The sojourner maintained his deferent position.

"The teachings are only to be imparted to a member of our own Order, Jedi."

Face downward, Qui-Gon issued mild objection. "Yes, my Master. But is there truly any such distinction? We serve the same Force; we have our origin from it; it is our final destination and end."

"Well spoken," the Shaman replied, after a long silence. "If you are in earnest, then you will submit to me as an apprentice. You have already renounced your past; will you now set aside your identity? Only one without self or history may tread the steep way."

Qui-Gon at last dared to raise his head, looking upon one who had been dead for two centuries, and yet who was resoundingy, undeniably aflame with the Living Force, a nimbus of vivifying light flickering along the edges of his manifest form.

"What must I do?" he asked.

There was a moment in which the Whill seemed to judge his courage. Then the figure rose, gesturing to the shrine at eth garden's heart, the center of the Vergence here. "Drink of the well," he replied, gravely, "And forget all that you have been."

* * *

"Padawan."

Obi-Wan blinked, breaking his trance with difficulty, and looked up at the figure leaning in the hatchway. "Master. Are we… " But they were not in transit; he could feel the ship humming idly beneath them, the hyperdrive yet unengaged. "Has something happened?"

Dooku cocked his head to one side. "We shall see. You've received a new transmission form your Darshiki friend."

The young Jedi found his feet, aware that neither blossoming headache nor the anxious pit in his stomach had abated, despite his lengthy communion with the Force, A sense of impending crisis seemed to close in about him, one entirely unrelated to their clse escape form Dathomir, or his personal scruples with the Sentinel's methods.

"Yes, Master." he slipped past Dooku into the cockpit and fiddled with the comm equipment until a small holo of Kar'Thon appeared over the projector. The diminutive assassin's wrinkled mug was uglier than ever – an unworthy thought, but one that would not be repressed.

"Jedi _karbuku,_" his conspirator and vassal grunted. "Listen. Planetfall we have made. Many of us hired for the job – training center. Ogg is here, and the _chimmza_ you are looking for." A lipless reptilian mouth rippled over crooked teeth. "I send location of system."

And the small image disappeared, fizzling into nothingness. A string of coordinates, non Republic standard system, flitted across the data-terminal. The computer immediately set about converting the data to a compatible form.

"Ah," Dooku remarked.

Obi-Wan nodded, a strange numbness creeping up his spine, the hand of fate squeezing away all other awareness. Syfo-Dyas had been run to ground. The moment had come – the quarry all but flushed from its hiding place. He watched the string of numbers coalesce into an astro-nav projection, into a designated planetary system, statistics and hyperlane routes delineated in blue. He was not familiar with the world, and tapped the image in mid-air, pulling up the downloaded archival records.

"We will change our itinerary," the Sentinel decided, grimly.

"Your news for the Council…" his apprentice began.

"Can wait. This affair claims our foremost attention. We have waited a long time for this moment, Padawan."

They had indeed, an agony of deferred purpose. Like patient astronomers of old, they had waited for this fallen star to reappear, the cold comet of treason to make its cyclical return. And now they were abruptly faced with the conjunction of fate and their desire, the consummation of their mutual efforts, the day of reckoning suddenly drawn nigh.

The Sentinel noted the new destination and promptly set to programming the navicomputer, while Obi-Wan frowned over the briefing materials available on the shipboard database. "The Senate has declared this system a war zone in violation of the Arkai conventions, Master. Republic support has been withdrawn for decades… trade sanctions imposed, hyperlanes blockaded – why would anyone choose such a disaster zone for a base of operations?"

"Why indeed?" Dooku murmured, stroking his short beard, his gimlet eyes already glittering with e dejarik enthusiast's cunning anticipation. "He is up to no good, I assure you."

And that building certainty of _doom_ tolled again, constricting the younger man's chest and crawling down his spine. "I have a bad feeling," he confessed, hoarsely.

The Sentinel shifted in his chair, one hand reaching sideways to touch his student's arm. "What is it, young one?" Genuine concern undergirded his tone, making the ashen-faced padawan look up in surprise and gratitude.

"I – I don't know… this started before Kar'Thon's message – "

Dooku's hands closed about his shoulders as he slumped forward, panting, the Force drumming loudly in his ears, a wail slowly building within the shuddering plenum."Another injury?" the older man demanded.

But this was nothing to do with Dathomir… or the Darshikki assasin's revelations. Obi-Wan shook his head, blackness slinking at the edges of vision, pain taking up its throne beneath his pulse. "It's something else… elusive," he tried to explain.

_Qui-Gon._

He groaned, felt Dooku push his head down between his knees, focused solely upon the act of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. "...Master."

"Easy, Padawan."

"_Master!"_

* * *

He drained the shallow cup, the spring water sweet as blissful sleep, as cold as harsh awakening. It fell from his fingers, and he looked upon the garden and its shimmering guardian, and his own trembling hands, eyes wide as a newborn babe's.

And he knew neither whence had come, nor who he was, nor whether there was existence beyond this paradise.

The Shaman nodded once, a gong note rolling in the Force, signifying a new beginning. "Come," he said. "You have much to learn."

He bowed, accepting the yoke of this new bondage, his ignorance, his death. "Yes, my Master."

* * *

Dooku steadied his apprentice with both hands, stroked the young man's back, a wave of unfamiliar sympathy warming the Force between them, a recollection of days far gone – thirty, forty years hence – welling into his mind unbidden, and with it the image of a gawky and awkward apprentice, the link uniting him to Kenobi in the Force's lineage.

And with that unbidden memory came knowledge, and an unexpected sorrow.

"_Qui-Gon,"_ the young Jedi whispered, one hand pressed hard against his sternum, as though clutching at the laboring heart beneath.

Somewhere in the Force, a star was abruptly extinguished. Dooku closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly, slowly, feeling the balance shift, the precarious tilting of destinies. But he had long since outgrown sentiment, and the luxury of mourning. "Come," he told his current student. "This way."

It took only a minute to settle the boy – man – upon the ship's single bunk, and another brief moment to coax him into the embrace of sleep and the Force's oblivion. His fingers strayed to the learner's braid last of all, trailing along its knotted complexity, the colored ties marking milestones upon the path, the place where grief had already been renounced, the tangled auburn tuft beneath, the yet unwoven future.

He was tempted to tie the braid off again, re-anchoring the padawan in the tradition to which he was bound, in which Dooku himself had labored for nearly seven decades. But in the end he merely dropped the soft plait over his apprentice's chest and retired to the cockpit, where the shipboard computer proclaimed its readiness to initiate the hyperspace jump.

They would tend to their duty first, and before all else.. He took the helm and pushed them past lightspeed with a steady hand, unafraid and unbending in his resolve. Their path now lay in the direction of an old enemy, one long overdue to feel the just wrath of light, one who had taken refuge upon a war-ravaged distopia, a planet so torn by strife that the Republic had abandoned it to its dreary fate, one so bifurcated by hatred that its double vendetta was reflected in its very name.

Melida-Daan awaited.

**End Book IX**

* * *

_But of course that isn't really the end at all; this tale will be continued in its immediate sequel, Lineage X -rb_


End file.
